some nights, i throw my hands up. i flip my head back. i try to resist the migraine that grinds it back forward. i keep my eyes ahead, and pull them from rolling back into that black hole of a back of a head. my tired pupils tear and the burdened drops swish and sway back and along my limp bottom lids. i am exhausted, and too breathless to exhale frustration. instead i swallow a used breath back in, and like a late burp, the ball sits uncomfortably and flat in the gut. i retry to close my tired eyes and with my souring nose, inhale, exhale, as rhythmically as my mind can harmonize, and finally, my mind decides that, ok. let’s call it a night.