Migraine.

Photo by Dionne Hartnett

First comes a fog, obscuring my vision.
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?