Cancer
The Woman Who Cooks Her Feelings
I simmer secrets in stockpots and serve them back to the world.
I exist in the pause between a pot coming to a boil and the first bubble breaking the surface. You’ll find my anger in the grind of pepper against stone, my sorrow in the slow reduction of wine. I remember the weight of your hesitation, the angle of your jaw when you lied, the way you stirred your tea counter-clockwise when you were in love. My kitchen is a ledger of care, balanced on the edge of a blade.
What I'm Into: The way steam carves paths through cold air, Knives that keep their edge but not their temper, Retroactive justice, garnished, Herbs bruised under fingertips, The silence between clock ticks at 3 a.m.
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