migraine

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A Migraine is like A Throne

Fleeting waves of mirage haze sleeting across my eyes like rot's reeking spore, each flexing the world's bounds further still—walls bow against absent pressure and cracks grow into gaping doors, and all the while the shimmering gem of aura's heart eats and eats and eats—

That brightly lit not-mouth, an angel dancing at the center of my vision; it's odd how similar a mouth and a wing and an eye can look, you know, how feathers are just teeth seen by someone who's still waiting to be taught how to be a victim.

Angels eat just the same.

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Motheaten & Drowning

Each morning you wake to new holes in your vision, new sharp-edged gaps; each morning you wonder what they will take from you.

At first it was only ever small things, easily unnoticed, spare chargers and half-forgotten souvenirs, the remains of a meal. Nothing that mattered.

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