"The doctor told me to keep a migraine diary"

   so here it is. Today, the pain held me like a lover.
I swear to God, migraines are a far more common fixture
in this house than my dad. I know because this is the 20th
day in a row I've gotten out of bed with my teeth feeling like
they're curling out of my mouth, needles shot into my eyes,
but it's at least the 30th day in a row that I haven't seen
my father. Does it matter? Never mind. Sorry. This isn't
about my dad. If anything, I have more migraines when
he's around. When I woke up and walked down the stairs,
it was kind of like wading through a flood's knife-edge.
Foam gathered around my feet as my knees crashed down
the steps, stumbling down like

            a runaway minecart. In a way,
the steps were like stalagmites. Or was it stalactites? Doesn't
matter. What I know is that wounds speckled my lead-filled
legs like paint splattered on a wall as graffiti. Sorry again.
It would have been a lot easier just to write: "I had a migraine,
and it was a 10 on the pain scale". But I don't get pain scales.
It's much more accurate to say that when I got up on my feet,
I mumbled through the distorted hall as the walls caved in.
The room was closing in on me, cutting through my blood
and searing itself into the grit of my bones, and the pain
was standing at the end of the twisted hallway, calling out:
Come here. I think you're beautiful. And without question
I came into its arms and didn't let go.


Dimasilaw (he/him) is an artist and writer from the Philippines who loves wizards, the Bible, and history. His work has appeared in Indigo Literary Journal, Warning Lines, and others; he been nominated for Best of the Net and is the editor-in-chief of Provenance Journal. He would do anything for his dogs. See @dimasiiilaw on Twitter.