|Photo by Dionne Hartnett|
Squint harder. That sign will come into focus.
No, it won't.
Lines of pain like cracks in cement work up the sides of my face.
Maybe coffee. Or a bath.
No. The mother fucker has got me.
It won't care that I have to go shopping, or take my son on a play date.
This one is going to roll over me like a truck, leaving me in sobbing remnants on my bed.
A day carefully measured into manageable portions has suddenly become several sizes too big.
And, again, I have to decide whether to flake,
or grit my teeth through another series of physical movements,
that used to seem so effortless,
and now cost so much.
Why do I have to get migraines on three day weekends?