Yowch.

Sadness triggers migraines.

Twitch.

The box of head lice solution matched her pink flannel pyjama bottoms. Embarrassed to be seen in public, her hair hung dejectedly in dark, wet strings about her head. She shuffled across the parking lot into a waiting SUV, the soles of her white socks darkening with every step. She was a woman who had given up on Life.

But not lice.

Sip.

When I'm pulling pieces of skin from the roof of my scalded mouth, I forget about things. Coffee allows me to go on.