Migraine
Anonymous
It’s hard to write about pain. I like the words narcissus crumble catastrophic tachycardia febrile murderous I spell them out one two three four, step by step so I’m not consumed by my left temple glowing wickedly in the 4am darkness hands cup my eyes you can’t see me I can’t see you you you sound like violins in E flat, crescendo orchestral metronome my heart reminds me she could kill me in seconds, rolling like southern heat, time mashes in one awful line and I think of a saw gripping my skull, of lifting the top delicate as egg-peel so it makes a light sucking sound, peering inside and ripping out the crawling nerves, of blowing it all off with a bullet, the tiny calcium of my bones gritty in flesh, unrecognizable. someone once described to me how brain feels in your mouth, a delicacy like scrambled eggs, fragile, savory, bitter hiding in your throat. how strange to think our insides never see light. light from the moon pours cruelly over me like a waterfall I once saw, stood in front of, opened my mouth. ahhh. my front teeth still ridged from childhood have little enamel left. they twing like bells on the front porch. it’s summertime. the birds know something we don’t. I’m scared of the dentist. My body is at once not my business and so utterly stuck to me, mine. Once at the hospital I tapped so hard on the linoleum tiles they gave way, as things eventually do, and let me in. I walked through the ICU, people strung up and beeping and dripping and desperate, tiny tiny plants struggling through concrete, the nurses smacking gum and scrolling. sometimes I think I’m the weakest person in the whole world. I do not know if I could take it, for anyone. teeth rolling in a mouthful of blood. needles tugging at skin, throats cushioned with ice. but they say: what is love if not sacrifice? the bright beautiful imagined people of television all look up at their saturated lovers and ask the same question: would you die for me? would you suffer? death as a gift, wrapped in shiny ribbon. perhaps there’s a comfort of being encased here, wholly absorbed in pain; don’t talk to me about emails or clocking in or calling what matters is the trees, their branches leaning over the highway, stretching roots in the sky, what matters is a perfect little white pill thick in my throat, expanding into darkness at last.
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