better . . . sorta

i had such a bad headache last night i thought i would just die.

the child was eating and the radio was on and the air kept cycling
and a mosquito hawk had somehow snuck in and gotten stuck in a plastic bag on the table . . .

every pounding of my pulse
every muscle twitch in my leg
every breath i reluctantly struggled to take as carefully as possible
were all torture

every soft wet sound of the child eating
every squeak of the antique piano bench she was sitting on
every tap of the waxed paper cup in the counter
felt as if a blow had landed on my brain

the rustle of the mosquito desperately attempting to escape the plastic bag was a cacophony of color and light behind my eyes
stunning and lethal

i focused on the soft music and stepped around the pain, gingerly, trying not to draw it's attention as i slipped by
and i held on to the music as i stole past the eyes blinded by the colors of sound
and danced naked on the music as i left my body behind me and felt it wrap it's sweet protection around me
clothing me in calm happiness
protecting me from agony

then i came smashing back down into the torment by the child tapping, tapping, tapping by my head . . .

flying back into storm and crashing with a harsh thump and much bruising
my runway being non-existent and the ground rocky and sharp.

and there you sit thinking, "wow, sucks to be you"