I step in look up at the sign "we dance in this kitchen" and then sigh gentle steps no smile open the fridge stare like I hated my view close it back take a step back and look at where the knife's are placed I remember how cutting tomatoes work how cutting potatoes work apples pears strawberries and that one time I accidentally cut a part of my finger "why not all of it?" I pick up a knife and analyze it I want to feel some kind of pain I feel numb now and I got used to the pain I want more it hurt too much that it had to stop but "DAMN IT I WANT MORE" I wish my dad could understand "we dance in this kitchen" is not the phrase I want to die in this kitchen remembering this is where I'm happy I love food but I hate preparing it I like the sound of boiling water but hate pouring it out of the pot. I love this kitchen I grew up baking with my mom I grew up having conversations with my sister I grew up listening to "did u wash your hands?" but what's the point if they're not here? what's the point? In the kitchen lay three knives one to cut the fruits one to cut salmon and one to end my life little by little when no one watches each day a new scar until I feel pain again until I disappoint my father until someone else kills me just like my sister did and mother.

Line up to worship at the butter dish Give us greasy palms And the sacred toast To see us through the fires of the stove That summons the morning aromas To coax the others from their slumber.

Sacrifice us atop the shrine of the cafetière And wash our bodies with coffee dregs Lest we pass to the other side Smelling of weak tea And looking like a used bag Steeped too many times.

Ascend us to the top shelf With the biscuits and the cakes And reward us for our faith Bless our tongues with cocoa And cinnamon icing Lest we forget the sweetness of life.

Memorialise us in the grease marks In the hardened jam That spells of yesterday And the careless scrapes Of our knives Across our breakfast.

As tears over took I felt like I was stuck My head banging against the wall Crash Smack Into the wall and back into the wall Until I could feel this Shocking dreadful pain That would last forever

Pre-dawn whispers, a rumpled landscape of sheets where her warmth should linger. The house, a cathedral of quiet, Devoid of the sizzle, and clanking of pans, that usually heralded the start of their day.

Sunlight, a thief breaching the blinds, Stretches across the battlefield of the kitchen table. The scent of perfume lingers on the air, A folded parchment, a white flag of surrender, Amidst the golden glow of morning light.

The folded paper lies like a wounded bird, It’s edges, creased and fragile. He shuffles closer, a marionette with grief for strings, and unfolds the stark landscape of their ending.

Tears, a relentless tide, rise from a well of shattered vows. He imagines the house crumbling, Cracking like his heart, He glances out the window, Framed by Lacey curtains, At a world that is indifferent to his pain.

He wonders if he, like the sun, will rise again , But for now, He crumples, A fallen warrior amidst the wreckage of a love that once bloomed in this sun-dappled room.

The kitchen is clean, Proper and neat.

The kitchen has tiles, Shiny, petite.

The kitchen holds knives, Sharp, in a row.

The kitchen looks tidy, Suspiciously so.

The kitchen smells odd, A hint of decay.

The kitchen is decorated, Bones fresh from today.

The kitchen has a past, Morbidly gory.

The kitchen has secrets, An untold story.

The kitchen is deadly, You’d better watch out.

Set foot in the kitchen- And you might not get out!

The butter sizzles The heat and aroma soar I savor this feast

Pots and pans, washing hands, Water running in the sink.

Plates and cups, the fridge opens up. Someone pours themselves a drink.

Bacon and eggs, a little dog begs. We know what he’s been wishin’.

Freshly baked bread, strawberry spread. Grandma’s cooking in the kitchen.

You open the fridge and not much you will see. A daunting emptiness of cold. A half gallon of milk sits alone, And a container of soup filled with mold.

You search through cabinets with hope. Wanting no more than a crumb, But all you find is dust and webs. The hunger is making you numb.

You search through your pockets, Praying for coins to fall. Maybe a small sandwich you can buy, But no coins, just a lint ball.

You feel the hunger consuming you now, In the kitchen, desolate and full of demand. No one will know your struggle, Because how would they ever understand?

In the kitchen, I craft love in my hands I simmer storylines of flavors and spices The character of the food develops in my pots and pans, and always ends on your tastebuds. The journey of sustenance is one I will always follow with a fire in my eyes Though I know the ending like I know what follows a breath. That may be written in stone, but the way that a person lights up when they take their first bite When tongue and tale meet Will always be a surprise Maybe heat gathers in the apples of their cheeks Or their eyes grow wide as a contented hum vibrates their chest Or maybe just a small smile pulls at the corners of their lips Mine changes from day to dish, but theirs is always the same. Content. Warm. If I am good for nothing else, I will craft a meal without a second thought And fill it to the brim with as much love as I can fit on a cutting board.

Cooking in the kitchen is fun, Although sometimes it can be glum.

Different foods can be full of danger, But it’s worth it for the flavour.

Things like carrots are always a pain to peel, And the myth that they help you see in the dark isn’t real.

Onions are something you can do anything with every fry, But they don’t half make you cry.

All kitchens have a work top where you can prepare, So you can cut up your vegetables and ingredients with care.

Cupboards are where you keep all your herbs and spices, It’s also where you can keep all your different rices.

A kitchen is somewhere you can cook any type of dish, One with meat or one with fish.

You have the ingredients to cook any kind of meal, It really just depends on how you feel.

Cooking in the kitchen is only as fun as you make it, Although you should have your food taste nice and not taste of shit.

For me the kitchen is sanctuary it’s where I have fun, Unless you run out of ingredients then you have to go on a run.