Headache

by Joyce Nancy

The furniture is puffy 
and swollen with no edges & I bounce
from thing to thing, foggy-eyed and 
drugged up on some aura
I don’t understand. What this headache is 
is pushing the limits, is nausea, is keeping me 
dull, is forced dissociation. What I need
is to get back to the cool dark soft room 
that has never existed or maybe has, 
but it’s hard for me to consider that—that a good thing,
a kind easy thing was there when I was young and hurting.

I’ve been talking a lot about doors 
about busted open locks
about boundaries. 
Certain types of fear you don’t forget, 
like pursuit or captivity—
a word I always mistake for meaning something
more like solitude, isolation. I remember 
the cracked wood, plaster, whatever 
a doorframe is made of. 
It’s fine is what I keep saying because 
there are worse things to focus on, 
there’s always a worse thing and if you 
keep trying to find it
you’ll go forever.

Safety is a thing constructed—
like a house
or a poem.
I’m trying my best to describe a migraine, a boundary violation, 
a certain type of headspace where the hurting keeps you 
just dull enough to feel safe.