It’s all in my head. My forehead.
Ask me about the weather. The body knows all.
Absolutely Cloudy with a Chance of Migraines.
That forecast better explain the scorching dagger zigzagging above my eyes. The knees torn learning to ski are in the first stage of rain-related throbbing. And oh that broken wrist from last year? The site of eternal aggravation? She’s kicking into prime pain as we type.
If our bodies are temples, I am about to be invaded by an angry congregation.