Down into the kitchen. Down into the depths of despair as you pick up a knife and a purple onion and start to cry. And it's not even the onions. It's the decades of weight you carry on your tense shoulders. It's the echoes of your friends' screams in your ears. It's the emotion that's been buried, the grief that never got to just sit in its own space, it's the hands of others who touched without asking.
You throw the vegetables into the pan with the oil, with the garlic, with the lovers that you left behind. With the friends that said goodbye not only to you but to themselves.
To those who cursed you.
You cry for it all.
The steam warms your face, the hot tears,
Agency taken from those at all levels, except the top.
YOU ARE READING
Ramblings of a Queer Gremlin
PoetryEnter the mind of an anonymous queer gremlin. You. Within these chapters, you will have rambling insight into a writer's mind. Into the fantasies of a world with no expectations or limits. One that loves to dive deep into the dark and mysterious wo...
