Poetry By Hannah Wyatt

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​Migraine Lament 

Birds gather outside my little
blue house in the rain, chitter 
aura, a castle, sans princess. I roll
my throbbing head against the cool
rock of the toilet seat and wonder 
at what point does the pain
halt or begin and down the hall
a screen glows horror in shades
of red and blue. There’s a film
aflicker where no one
survives, I mumble, grieve life
before, press pain to the 
center of my eye like putty. 
In this story, I’d
swallow men, would
saw my heart out
for a better view,
would lay stormward in waves,
in weakspirits, to survive -
any trade
for a softer brain. 



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Hannah Wyatt (she/her) is a multi-genre writer and artist from West Virginia. She holds an MFA in fiction from West Virginia Wesleyan College, and her work appears in Brilliant Flash Fiction, Pinch, L'Esprit Literary Review, Maudlin House, Drizzle Review, and more. Learn more at hannahwyattwriter.com.