A Migraine by Salma Maburya

The subconscious, where migraines start.

Their genealogy is

a vehicle, a hearse, 

where the dregs of peace converge 

to attend their funeral at a psychiatric hospital.

When you close your eyes,

the remains of your past – in the tomb –

water themselves, 

sprouting and collaging into the present.

A migraine on the other end transforms you,

minces you.

Dying is a paradox; 

the genesis to an elegy whose revelations have no antidote.

You pick a dead parrot and rebaptize yourself into it.

Your mind, your ear, is now empty 

–a vacuum in a scarecrow, likely already in peril.

You put on your headphones, it says a hello, blares the valediction of your deceased sister, picks up a hammer and shocks you with a coffin.

Grief is polysemous,

always a pen between its index and middle finger,

writing a new definition.

Salma Maburya is a teenage Nigerian writer, A Hausa girl and a die-hard lover of green. She adores nature and she is the founder of Girlup Smilet.ng, a GirlUp (UN) chain.

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