Morning crawls through the window like a thief,
Pulls the blanket off my bones and whispers old receipts—
Last night’s headache’s grown teeth,
Gnawing at the inside of my skull like a rat in the walls,
I count the cracks in the ceiling,
Each one a nerve ready to snap,
Coffee’s no cure,
It just paints the pain a different shade of static.
Work shirt’s wet in the armpits,
Stains I can’t remember making,
I taste copper and pennies,
Something sour rides my tongue—
Mirror blinks at me,
Mouth not quite in sync with my mind,
I think I said my hello,
But it came out as someone else’s apology.
Is this a headache or a warning?
Is this pain or prophecy?
The walls hum with voices,
But only one is mine—
The others scrape and giggle,
Swapping stories about what I’ll do tonight.
Brainache—
Every throb is a shadow crawling closer,
Every breath is a crack in the shell,
Slower and slower, the world bends at the corners,
Dreams drip down my spine and ring the warning bell.
Brainache—
Are these memories or symptoms,
Is this my skin or a borrowed hell?
I used to know the sound of my own heart,
Now it just stutters like a busted sign on a motel.
I drag myself through the day like a body bag,
Sunlight cuts my eyes,
I see the same stranger’s face on every screen,
Hands shake,
Thoughts slither,
I’m swallowing glass just to taste what’s real—
Someone says my name but it comes from behind my teeth,
A hunger,
A grin,
A promise I don’t remember making.
Time’s all greasy—
Clocks melt,
Numbers don’t line up anymore,
Is this the world,
Or just a fever behind my eyes?
There’s a woman laughing,
Mouth too wide,
Hands on my thighs—
Maybe I called her,
Maybe she called me,
Maybe we’re both here to see who bleeds first.
Brainache—
Like a fever that prays,
Like a whisper that bites,
Something ugly pushing up through the cracks of the night,
Brainache—
I can’t trust the mirror,
I can’t trust my hands,
Slipping between floors, between flesh and demands—
Brainache—
This is the crossroads,
This is the slip,
I’m not sure if I’m breaking,
Or if I’ve already split.
Night comes slow—
Not sleep, just the ache getting deeper,
Shadows stretch out,
Whispering,
“We’re almost home.”
Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up real,
Or maybe I’m already gone.