The kitchen was once her refuge. It was a place where she could create anything. The kitchen was a place of her own in a tiny house.
Then he got a taste for cooking. It ceased to be a place where she could create anything. He mocks her creations and says his creations are better than hers.
They stand in the kitchen together one evening as he scolds her for being different from him with her creations.
She lets it go and decides to fill the dishwasher and turn it on. Water begins to exit the dishwasher through the door and pour out all over the floor.
He blames her for the dishwasher malfunctioning to which she replies, “when the water exits the dishwasher I am reminded of all the bullshit that flows from your jaw”.
He stands at the bench unable to think of something witty to say as she walks from the kitchen, to the garage, and out the door.
The study is a place of bourgeois reflection and hard-won luxury for this man of the people.
He reflects on the day and sometimes other things as he prepares to mix himself a drink.
The leather lounge chair smells so expensive to him that no candle could ever compare.
As he sits down to ponder his life, he feels nice as a renaissance man with a full head of hair and most of his teeth.
The lounge chair of luxury is beautiful and hard, just like the interior decoration and his mood.
He reclines on the lounge chair of luxury, but he is unable to find a comfortable spot.
The leather lounge chair cannot replace that hollow feeling felt so often, now his heart feels no love.
You live with a fridge from yesteryear. Her door is old and the suction is a bit off.
Partying like you’re in your twenties, you drunk too much last night and feel flat.
You descend the staircase to the kitchen for some relief from the heat and sickness.
Placing one foot in front of the other, you stand in front of your vintage fridge.
You open the fridge only to find that there is a secret garden hidden inside your love.
Putrid smells and semi-decaying pumpkins reveal themselves to you in horror.
You see moss, mould, mushrooms and something else growing in that ecosystem.
Peachy, you feast your eyes on the greenery and decide to close the fridge for good.
You value your tummy, so upon closing the fridge you kiss her and say goodbye.
We loved each other so well.
You used to throw your socks at the bookcase when you arrived home, I would scold you, and then you would give me that disarming smile of Satan.
I would always wash your socks, hang them up to dry or put them in the dryer, and then lay them out in pairs only to fold them into smiley faces.
You decided to stop throwing your socks at the bookcase. Instead, you started taking them off in your computer room surrounded by your books, snacks, and hentai.
I wept for us and decided to let you go.
You’ve gone away, never to throw those smelly socks at the bookcase.
The ones you left behind don’t smile the way they used to.
She read widely about minimalism and how joy-filled a home with little.
She loved blue and white porcelain so, but it sat in her house behind glass.
Something changed as she listened to doom metal – an understanding.
Something had to be done with the porcelain that irked her so.
She lined the porcelain teapots, cups, and saucers in front of the speakers.
She took a breath, blasted the porcelain with doom metal and watched them dance.
Beloved porcelain is no more, but oh, how entertaining it was.
I dream of the kitchen cupboards
smashing against your head,
and I cannot stop smiling.
You falling from me so forlorn,
as the wood connects with
that round shiny ball of a head.
The toilet seat holds all of your secrets, keeping them silently.
A friend to no one, but useful to all; your safe haven.
Sitting upon your throne of bliss, you ponder.
Mysteries of the universe and ideas awaken; you come alive.
The room spins.
Your mind is alive.
One with the seat.