my kitchen

by amy sharp


I devour paperback novels and burn sage and sometimes tell myself stories about the day I knew you were going to be a part of my world. I'm not kind to myself, instead I plunge my hands into hot water and do dishes while the radio brings me words. I touch the tips of knives in the sink and laugh. I sing to sad songs and tap my toes on the wooden floor. I tie my apron like a corset. It's best to keep busy when you're blue. It's best to keep counting.