The words
“Bring to a slow simmer” mean nothing to me
I am incapable of doing so
My eyes skim over that part of the recipe, going instead straight for the part where the oven turns on
And the food is reduced to a roiling, churning, unrecognizable mass
For me, there is no such thing as a gauzy, languid sunset or the sluggish, sleepy way
That anger can sometimes pool up inside you.
For me, a volcano has no warning or gradual burning of magma.
For me, it is just the present of the explosion,
Ripping, tearing, gushing, seething unceasingly
Jealousy and rage are not timid housecats, avoiding company and remaining invisible within the blackness of a room until a pale shred of light cuts through, reflecting a circular sheen.
Instead they are cantankerous sabertooth tigers.
And I can’t keep myself from setting them free.