It’s all in my head. My forehead.

Ask me about the weather. The body knows all.

Tomorrow?

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.