My little girl,
She speaks to me
Her voice as sweet as honey.
But not today.
Her words are jagged shards of glass
My ears reject them,
My brow furrows.
Turn down the volume, Please!
But it is my delusion.
My temper is short
How unfair for her
She looks to me for guidance.
Be strong, I think
Set a good example!
Yet, I lay on the floor next to her,
And the T.V. becomes her nanny.
Her most basic needs are met,
But the guilt, it overwhelms me.
Why can’t I be like everyone else,
All those without this crippling pain?
And when it seems too much to bear,
A fatal end seeps in my diseased brain.
But in the fog, I hear her voice…
Like magic, the glass melts into honey,
And her voice-
It is my painkiller.
© 2001, Sheila Carey
An entry from the
Putting Our Heads Together
Migraine and Headache Poetry Contest
Honorable Mention, 2001
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