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This morning the migraine strolled through the door

which I must have left unlocked,

kicked me in the head, and never left.

Embraced me, crushed me, sang in my ear.

Chipped slices off my skull.


At noon the light is warped, 

it hums, faintly yellow.

Stuck in an endless stream of words,

gunshot footsteps and barking speech.

I circle the room

Scattering blood drops

Which have already filled my lap, my skirt.


Evening, my mud-sucked ankles at the door.

How does a key fit into the lock?

Does it?  Will it turn? 

Clouds of yellow, vile-smelling dusk,

Poisoned mushrooms in my pockets.


More doors, more locks, a series of rooms

once there was a chair, a light switch, darkness.

Skull shards crunch under my feet

which are suddenly bare.


A trail of drops, ruby red

Leaves and fingers brush my face.

My brain leaks poison into my veins,

metal in the back of my throat.

Am I under a spell?

Tripped, flat on the ground,

My last few eggs sliding down past my ankles.


Did I bite the apple?  I can’t recall.

I will sleep in this glass box for a thousand years.

Washed by rain and snow, exposed to whispering faces.

My monthly blood trickles away to nothing.

Seeming peaceful,

a war in my body.

Who is the witch that put me here?

She has my face.

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