hypochondriac

My heart, it’s racing
My arms, they’re aching
My breathing feels shallow
My mind sees a shadow

of doubt looming over
right over my shoulder
I just need to know
what I already know

That it’s all in my head
and I’m not nearly dead
and I have neither -itis
nor -plasia, nor -osis

See, I’m an irrational worry machine
with a habit of taking in too much caffeine,
so please take with a grain of salt
the ramblings of my reason’s fault

Miserable irony I’ll find in death
when my wolf cry turns out to be true
And my doctor exclaims, as I take my last breath,
“Could have sworn it was only the flu!”

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