I don’t know how to write anymore.
I don’t write anymore?
I don’t know.
“Creative Writing” is what it’s called, one the courses I’m taking to hopelessly prove to myself I’m not hopeless in spite of everything suggesting that I am: my inability to write but four incoherent sentences about being unable to write, my social anxiety creeping up on me as I attempt seemingly simple conversations and my hungry wallet reminding me that we’re equal in emptiness.
“I want you to take one item from this bag, without looking” Mr. Tucker
“You should’ve replaced that” Fair lass who can stand the sight of me
Minutes, hours and days passed and I am still fixated on one question, singular: Why is the blue monstrosity laughing at me? I know to a certain degree of certainty that my psychosis hasn’t reached the hallucinatory state yet but the three headed chicken was laughing at me. It knew why I tore up my previous pathetic excuse for a poem, it learnt that I am incapable of writing and it smelled the fear oozing out of me. I was defeated by a blue egg pouch. Fun times ahead.
Is it a bird?
Is it a plane?
My psychiatrist is referring me to someone else. I told her about the conversations in my head with the other I’s and how the egg pouch is to blame for the increased thoughts of suicide.
I still blame the blue monstrosity. With every attempt to release any piece of writing from the gray matter and wrinkles of my brain, the bird sweeps down, steals my words from between my fingers and laughs at me. I wish I was an egg pouch. I would sit around all days and nights in my smooth blue garments, I would taunt students with the true purposelessness of my two spare heads, I would smirk when I’m chosen by failed writers and I would offend the roosters and hens of the world by kidnapping their unborn children and presenting them gladly to my masters.
I wish I was an egg pouch.
Sangre por sangre!
Eye for an eye!
Yolk for yolk!
“Sir, you can’t be here. This is a crime scene.”
“I can see the yellow tape, son. Now move aside”
“It’s okay, James, he’s with me”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir”
“Where do you find these kids? It’s like an infestation of teenagers in here. I loathe teenagers”
“Loathe is a big word, Ed. Plus we shouldn’t all be relics to do good police work”
“Good Police Work…eh? Anyway, where is the body?”
“It’s in the living room, but I don’t think you should see it, it’s pretty darn gruesome”
“I’ve been to two wars, Jimmy, I doubt that it’s any different”
It’s not the body, it’s not the blood and certainly not the fatal injury, it’s always the smell. Death reeked differently today.
“What are these yellow circles on the wall?”
“We’re sending samples to the lab but…”
“well, sir, it smells like yolk, I don’t know why but the perpetrator has smeared what looks like yolk on the walls, sir, and it’s rather fitting considering the egg pouch”
“Where is it? The pouch?”
“It’s in the kitchen sir, with the murder wea…”
“STOP. Just Stop. Where are you going with this?” Yelled the blue monstrosity.
I don’t know where I’m going but at least I’m writing.
Blood for yolk…