I’m in the kitchen my
dear, I’m writing letters to these voices
which I thought I’d left behind,
But they only whispered they had gone.
The plastic silence moulded and set false hope around what I couldn’t see.
It’s always here in my
breath, It’s the room I carry with me, as a safety net,
For what I cannot feel within the haven’s never-ending recipe’s for love.
It’s a formula if only
Whole, in this static day, of unity bound within a severed
Fraction of contemplation.
It’s all so clear, my
Finger runs down charts which tell me how much of the waking world will notice,
That my bread will turn to stone,
In the midst of yet another spell I cast for yesterday.
Perhaps I just miscounted,
Or the voices blurred my
Eyes can only see the skin around another mix of
Everything I hate and stands
Alone within a jar.
I read the label out. Louder than knives are blunt within this shrinking cupboard.
Cold and curious, let it wait,
For dust of scattered flour to bury every trace, and
Lock me in this suffocating ritual, of
Making myself out of measures which are whole,
But broken things seldom
My dear kitchen, so sweetly
Scorched the words recur.
Bring me to my methods of keeping
Daylight where the nightmares only fear,
When I no longer bind them.
Whispering with care.
© PickledSparklyMoosePrincess – author