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