in the belly of everything

today is slow. everything has the feeling of weight, of more gravity, of an unwillingness to be lifted or carried or moved. they refuse to be moved but at the same time everything feels buzzing, a subtle vibration that is barely noticeable but definitely there. this, friends, is the beginning of a migraine.

it starts with an ache at the nape of my neck, and a feeling of pinpricks that starts out like a foot that's just barely asleep, then grows. it follows down my spine and ends in the back of my legs, just behind my knees. i feel it in my shoulders, i feel it in my arms, my back, behind my eyes, in my ears, in every vein of my forehead. my face feels one size too small, wrinkled and scrunched so i try to smooth it out with my finger tips but it really has little to no effect.

a migraine is everything amplified. your own heartbeat is too much. every click and tap is inside your ear, turned up to eleven. every ounce of relentless light is shining directly into your eye.

sometimes i feel like a whiner. but...well, there is no but. i feel like a whiner, a complainer, making a big deal out of nothing. oh well. right now i don't care. my head hurts.

Some days, I feel myself wither.
I see myself shrunken, diminished,
my sodden frame dry out and complain
with the moan of an old house.
I was once a painted lady, all bronze,
copper, and freckles, my skin a golden
brown. But I invited a winter in, hiding
from my sun. I allowed flesh and muscle
to weaken, the strength in my spine
to curve. My bones are spindled to nothing.

Like a twin carried in my belly, I allow pain
to twine its veins with mine. We breathe
the same air, in the same motion, the heaving
of our chests simultaneous and orchestrated.
We share a body, live so closely
that some days I can’t imagine life without it.

Pain is life in a crowded room, all jutting
elbows and careless boots. I am pressed
against every body and crave cool breezes
but my exit is blocked. It flaunts those daring
red letters high above us and I know
if I were to squeeze through, inch alongside
walls and windows I could find my way out,
but the glass is too cold against my skin.
Motion is too much to bear.

Pain is a tower, whitewashed to cover gray
bricks, with bright lights to warm up empty
cells. Pain is isolation, a compulsion that seizes
and grinds its teeth in your ear. Remember,
you asked to come here.