Migraine

Pounding.

            Pounding.

Pounding.

That’s all it is,

As of yet at least.

A knife stab,

Yet a bloodless and vindication-less one;

A mob of demons

Knocking,

Knocking,

Knocking:

Smirking little smears across their

 Rotted faces.

If I let you in,

I wonder, curiously, irritably,

Will you cease this throbbing?

Cease this knot which

Grows steadily by the second:

Too much silent clatter ringing in my ears

And too much light blinding it all out:

A blur of staring-in-the-sun-too-long and

Weaving when I close my eyes.

A curious queue of white, yellow, and sickly blue.

Sleep that runs and flees

Like—

Just let me close my eyes and dream!

Just shut off the scream that scars my mind!

Stop the pounding!

Stop the knocking!

Stop the spinning

And the blinding

And the tick-tick-tocking!

Stop it all with a shroud of curtain, cooling sleep.