She sits upon a single stool
in the middle of the kitchen
Gazing upon congealed food
and hopes she is forgiven
for gazing upon the knife block
wishing every living thing dead
She doesn't have a problem
cleaning up the blood of others
but, what goes on in her head
Is her hatred for violence
Her absolute despise of distrust
Her almost implacable resolve
to make it dead, if she must
She abhors the deadly whispers
that critiques her daily choices
She sits alone upon a stool
trying hard to ignore the voices