Purple zang lightning thunder lemon

I never used to do this

Over-eat.

I never used to let that thunder dream down upon me, I had pushed it out like a secret honey comb that was not a true part of the colony’s design

(Throw it up, gag, hack, dry heave out)

Like a seething lemon curd, a thunder I created in a stew of my beating, wordy dissent

It felt so new and fresh, the conjured purple lemon zang, the melted time that felt like forever heaven

Now is too much butter in between my toasted English bread, jammed up purple with blooming fruits and roses and shoved down, airy and oily and soft and not like that cloud-like embrace I only received in my dreams.

I cram it, I stuff it, I want to forget but the zang of that sunshine drips down my throat. It sounds like a golden flute, it feels like a buzzing noise that can’t be seen but only felt like a thrumming and humming—- so scary, scattered and beautiful, I cannot hide.

I made two cups of coffee for myself today

I never used to do this

Over-eat.