The Migraineur’s Witch

Behind my left eye
the woman who should be me
sighs and stretches.
I feel her cold hands
yank the reins
my veins.
Open and constricting
again again again
she is pulling me aside.
Sharp away
from these footsteps of mine
that she disapproves of so.
I resist for as long as I can
sick blinded
I.
Until the inevitable crash
brings me falling down
through.
Where I dwell in the darkness
spinning and still
utterly stalled.
Until she lets go her grasp and
sashays back to her lair
behind my left eye.