Throb

You wake up with a headache. What were you dreaming about?--you would ask if you could stop the gasp that swishes in, between your shivering teeth. Fingers fly to temples, circling like mother goose. The body, your body, lies on its back with its eyes closed, nearly a grimace on its face. But the expression has too much determination in it. You can see it doing this. Meanwhile, at 11 o'clock high, something expands, expands quickly: a supernova bright bubble, its shining dermis all distance away. You watch as if at the final bender of a dying star, from space, distant. Your heart is beginning the weak contraction of the dub side. The wet black of your skull heats like a kiln--you'd scream if there were time, but the pause is gone and all there is left is careening dizziness, body wanting to twitch but too many clouds lie between your signals and its receiver. The inner ear, displeased, rumbles, crashes, spins its roundhouse... to what? Lungs expand and oxygen rushes one, two, one, two into that space, filling and receeding. You sit up, you know where the remedy is. Too late: not one star this time, but galaxies. Between this moment and the end, if there were time--not an issue in this place--you'd let it be known to the powers you don't believe in that you'll be glad to rid yourself of this body. Let them know in a wail, crying, snot dripping down over your hands as you debase yourself on the carpet, sweating. Breathe again. Crawl.