A Study in Hypochondria

I was the blue child: denim skirt, turquoise butterfly necklace, seafoam in the center of my eyes. Sapphire tankini and the pictures that got passed around online by girls in the fifth grade. Tape measurerers around my waist. Icy lips from coughing and wheezing and begging for air. Convulsing in the waiting room, still in my uniform. Standing up just to collapse, buckled knees hit the tile floor. The nurse says they don't have a wheelchair. Pale nightgown in the emergency room where nothing is wrong but I think I'm dying. Aleve and Albuterol and Brio and Zoloft. The robin's egg shaped chair from which my therapist watched me, pearl tears in my seafoam eyes begging for a reprieve. Nothing is wrong but I think I'm dying.