Kitchens

Upstairs, is a kitchen.

In this kitchen are drawers, rattling

with sharp cutlery, racks

for cleavers,

scissors on the counter.

Upstairs I stumble,

uneven planes

strike my shin open

skin

Q-tipping off

drops full of forgive me-

puddles of passed out panic attacks-

They reflect your face

I swear it

And I can smell

your scent,

dandruff and wrinkled tee shirts

over the metallic smell of rust,

thick on taste buds, mouth

moistening, nose

twitching

achooing

Bless you,

forgers of late nights hiding in bathrooms,

hunched over sinks,

saw silence

in that liquid

silver steel,

saw our future,

clear as plastic,

blue-binned and malleable

fashion double-edged

deaths.

Hollow me out;

stomach

for a bowl,

body as a boat

and sail me to

Safety:

a place where they don’t believe in kitchens.