RIP Betty Crocker
I stand alone in my kitchen thinking about spilled milk.
The tiny room functions just fine. There’s a stove and a fridge. A sink without a disposal. There’s no dishwasher, except me. It’s too small for another body.
Three versions of me ago, I had a dream kitchen. Cool slabs of granite gleamed in the morning light. It had a top of the line dishwasher and a farmhouse sink with a disposal so powerful it could pulverize bones. The range was so sexy I wanted to fuck on it. But I was afraid of getting burned.
That me earned that kitchen being good. She was domesticated, small.
Now, I am alone in my shitty kitchen. Dirty dishes fill the sink. Vegetables rot in the crisper. The brown bananas won’t ever be turned into bread.
The good girl didn’t make it. She’s buried under six feet of swamp water. It’s better that way. She’d hate it here.
This kitchen is small, but I am not. Not anymore. Now, I live for the burn.