i was nine 

when i had my first migraine 

but i sometimes feel its pain above my left eyebrow when i squint 

and it hurts like my father’s rage and my mother’s grief. 

the orbits in my eyes cradle a child 

who once evaluated what she’d need if she ran away, 

her first thought was a home that never was. 

this city chews me up and spits my dreams into dust that litters these pain-filled streets and if you ask me,

you’ve walked on those streets over 

        and over 

                                           and over 

despite the pain thickening itself each time. 

i don’t know how to open up,

will you peel me like a clementine?

break through the outside, 

through the layers and the pulp, 

tear me open into a mess, 

and even if it stings your eyes, 

will you try? 

the line between absence and presence has blurred, 

do the writers have a word for empty spaces feeling like your presence? 

perhaps a word for a presence that was but pixelated? 

i’m grief’s lullaby, 

can i put you to sleep? 

this dread feels ancient, 

something i’ve always felt at the back of my gums, 

it has grown fangs of its own. 

will i ever open my wardrobe and find what i’m looking for? 

will you hold me close and 

trace my brain and arteries 

until you find my grief and rage, 

both merely a homesick feeling?