What Happens When? Poem by M. A Heathcote

Nausea is a billowy blanket.
That makes it difficult to swallow air.
Rich, clean air clutters the lungs.
Like a folding deckchair
Just won't be expelled—I swear.
And still worse
A nervous disposition
Makes you itch like you've got hives all over
Makes you feel there are ants all over
Your body is in places you'd rather not go.
Stress… Oh my lord, what an evil thing to do…
Never should have worked so hard.
Where's the time gone?
Doc says, take these pills; it'll all be fine.
Darling, falling apart isn't a crime.
And anti depression, oh my word, it
They took away my one world,
swallowed it clean and whole.
After which, I could barely breathe.
Or control the way I felt or myself, cajole.