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.