Sad & Happy Musings, on one sunny side morning

I would start with a busted, busted egg yolk. Creamy, nutty, smooth, silky. The silence of the blistered yellow on top of the smoky white, would be like the most celestial part of heaven in my mouth. Carmelized pork; such as hot butter with the crisp of Canadian bacon. Toasted English muffin. Hot coffee with half and half. Homemade waffles with blackberry jam& butter.

So, I'd watch Lars Von Trier's blowjob train scene in Nymphomaniac part one as I ate the broken egg yolk and start an angry poem. Then, I would erase it, and start again. I would remember the dream I had which brought me to the most somber tears. My ex boyfriend dying and I could not save him. I was extremely sad. Tears fell without effort.

But, my house is full of children and laughter and fussiness. That silent morning is cut like my special egg yolk and a dash of hot sauce, yellowing up my loudness with a wanting that I cannot recreate in my writing. The wanting is so important. So deep. Like a visercal hole in your face that only you feel and see.

Like how the blow job scene in Nymphomaniac part one can give me gender envy yet passion for a scene in my head.

Is the cracked shell a lot like my dysphoria? Is the trauma I've been dealt much like the white part of the egg, never moving and burning if left to long on the griddle? What should I write about if I had this perfect morning all to myself?

What! Why! When! How! Who!

The dangers of an idle, sad, strangely content mind. I remember my story about the nuclear blast and the Shepard’s pie. I want to continue writing about thw relationship that David and Robin have, but at the same time, I must be working toward something good—-especially if trauma is healing.

Tea with milk sounds like a good afternoon starter.

What can I write? I can write about a lost friend that hurt me deeply with silence, even if I can still be able to talk nicely to them, it really hurts because I'm really nothing to them. A painful memory of childhood that I can recreate in a metaphor. I can write about the zombie love of Bexley & Stan. The zombie messy love of Hudson & Ash. The dark romance of Edward & John.

Why do you write so many queer relationships? That isn't realistic.

I hear others Say & in my mind.

i spend all morning editing Carnivorous

Eating me alive inside

I eat myself alive

I break more yolks

It's a yellow memory after all
Bright, cheerful Summer Sunlight still makes me sad.

I long to wrap my arms around sad

And blow blue into the night

And sink into the stars with broken yellow

And cut away from the pain in my body that deepens like an indented marble statue

Unfinished like how you said goodbye so eagerly

So softly like a lullaby .