Autobiography I.

I am a head full of dead brain cells.
Stress, fingers tapping at the skull.
Hair and emptiness growing expansive inside.
I am warm and queasy,
Like a sunday morning hangover.
I am soft and prickly,
The nine am sunshine tingles.
I am a headache, creaky and dry
Or black and confusing, memory is so slippery.
I am a stomachache,
boiling belly like rice on the stove
Gooey paste gluing grains to the pot.
I am a toothache,
Aching and rotting enamel,
The shell of itself falling apart and melting away.