My mother’s kitchen is like
a symbol of boldness and acceptance.
Stove of valor that cooks the hottest meals pinches itself whenever it burns her.
Fascinating utensils that hold the substance but only they know how empty they are.
The doors of cupboards have been broken long ago but nobody pays attention to that since no one enters her kitchen,
just like her heart.
The smoke summons her own childhood when she sat with her mother, the last time she was spoiled.
The food prepared is worth defying the restaurant cuisines but ofcourse it fails her at the garnishing, with its jazzy
Her kitchen is like a rose with its thorns, keeping people at bay. It’s a place where she fights alone, in her mind.
With the fuel, the fire, the flames, the fuming question
why only she was subjected to this tiled war room.