Migraine
You are the pound of a drum, percussion inside of my head.
You are my cold, hardened pillow made of bricks; you are red.
You ruin me and I hate you. You are my cracking skull--
a build-up of bursting pressure. You are my gray, blurry
vision--you are my blindness. You are my undying nausea; you
make me so terribly sick.
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