Grateful Though Blind and Hurting
a poem about migraines and people with worse
One Hundred Days of Gratitude. Three.
When the aura overtakes your left eye — you forget everyone who doesn’t have a right one.
When your lips, left hand, and half your head go temporarily numb before the real pain comes — You don’t feel for those who can’t feel at all.
When the stabbing starts inside your skull and the murderer refuses to stop.
When every light is a drop of acid in your eye that burrows back up and into your brain and adds to the ocean of pain.
When sounds crack and splinter your skull like the old wooden hull on unseen rocks.
When the hurt is so horrible it must be unhealthy, so your body tries to push it out through your throat and you choke— You never think about those without hope, who would trade the world for passing pain and the need for pills and explanations.
And that’s okay. But later, when you are too, it’s not bad to say: I know ones who have it worse. I think I’ll keep this curse.
