Clinging, desperately to the dashboard of the car that is my life. Nails biting so hard into the dashboard that blood begins to pool in the dents. Swerves, sudden stops, crashes, hissing of metal agents metal, bright lights, dings from the key-left-in-the-ignition, rattling front he seatbealt, ready to fall apart, leaving you to be swung out the open window with your nails still attached to the fake leather dashboard, where "airbag" is neatly stamped onto the front.
Once landing you have to be able to walk away from the still bucking car, holding your head high, walking in a sright line. Ignore that pounding of blood between your ears. Wipe away the sweat from your brow. Straighten that shirt. Dust the dirt and glass from your shoulders. Look presentable. Because when you reach the ones waiting for you, they want you to know that they don't care what you're feeling, as long as you can put yourself together, barley, with scotch tape, loosen the lines around your face to show affection and concern for them, leave your eyes blank so they know that you're willing to fill your eyes up with attention for them.
Them. Those who are the migraine/headache/human hybrids. The ones that are coating our friends and loved ones. They are the ones us with the migraines see. The ones that have haz-mat-suits on to protect them from the possible contaminates we may have left on our skins from the ride of our lives. The ones on the outside see the pain we are living. The world that refuses to just stay still. They can see between the rays of bright lights and rigging sounds that penetrate our skulls. They wait to pass judgment, using our friends and loved ones faces to confuse us. They whisper that we're weak. This little tingling in the head is nothing and that the world has suffered greater hardships then we ourselves will ever know. They will use those whispers, those looks, those faces, to get their way into our head and make us feel like whips for even trying to battle the pain. The pain that seems to be every rock/metal music band (good or bad), nuclear bomb, giving birth threw the back of the skull, ice picks, drills, squeezing, toothaches, high-speed train wreck with an Optimums Prime semi truck, conga line at your cousins wedding, static on the radio, piecing threw the eyes to the back of the brain, flower press, deeply inhaling chlorine treated water, looking threw a kaleidoscope while one a tiltaworl eating pop rocks and soda type of pain.
Maybe if I just grip the seat a little harder, maybe if I cry a little softer, maybe if I will it to be so I can push it back, far enough to the back that I won't find it till later. I won't find it till after times have come and gone and I can face it head on, in a 5-point seat-belt for the car. Could it be that now the hip is fixed I'm focusing way to much on this mega-migraine?
Where's a zombie apocalypse when you need one?