The flame from the stove danced in the wind,
It faded and ignited like the fire within.
She grabbed a glass and filled it to the brim,
Took a deep breath and dived right in.

She was dicing the onions, tears filling her eyes.
Not from the onions, but from the pain she held inside.
She promised herself that today she wouldn’t cry,
So she bottled up her pain and put on a smile.

She sprinkled in some salt, that settled into her wounds.
She winced at the pain; it came spoon after spoon.
Anger wasn’t her colour and struggle would be her doom.
She stood in the kitchen, clutching the bane of her womb.

She chopped up the parsley; so delicate and thin.
When the knife missed the parsley and sliced through her skin.
They would ask her what was wrong, but where would she even begin,
When her blood was the sign of how she lost the war within.

She mixed everything together and put aside her fears.
She set the plates on the dinner table, next to every beer.
If you listened closely you could hear the drip of her tears,
While her conscience shot her with its poison covered spears

She grasped the edge of the table, trying to remain steady.
Her anxiety was creeping up on her, silent but deadly.
“You are NOT going to cry”, she told herself already.
And Just like that she said….
dinner was ready

She stumbled into her apartment at a quarter past nine,
Flicked on the lights and poured a tall glass of wine.
She clasped it firmly, her fingers intertwined,
And made her way to the bedroom – one step at a time.

Creeping through the hallway, pressing the glass against her lip,
She knew what she was getting into, but still went in for another sip.
Her hands were trembling, the seam slipping from her fingertips.
She was losing control and there was just no hiding it.

Searching for another bottle, and chugging it down her throat,
She drowned her sorrows in wine, and then attempted to stay afloat.
The bitter-sweet taste would then sometimes grasp her by the throat,
And plunge her into the darkness of the ceaseless unknown.

She let out a piercing, blood – curdling scream,
That shook the ground, the sky and everything in between.
Laying on the ground, she didn’t want to make a scene,
So she played with her lighter, in the ruby red bloodstream.

She was sick and tired of being so weak,
Falling prey and then accepting defeat.
The same story would play in a cassette on repeat,
As she’d pour herself a glass, and then beg on her knees.

-- Fatima