Spilling Wine, Spilling Secrets

I put on the apron like armor,

not knowing the kitchen was a battlefield

where betrayal was diced with onions,

and every splash of wine a compass spinning wildly

to nowhere I wanted to go, but I stood there,

bucket full of shame at my feet,

watching the flames rise like secrets in the dark.

The knife was a telescope I pointed at my failures,

cutting through the muscle of memory,

each slice fuelled by injustice,

the way a heart breaks open and still beats, still burns,

still wants something it will never have.

I spilled the wine, a red flood,

a confession on the floor,

and thought maybe this mess, this chaos,

was how you say I’m sorry to a world

that never stopped hurting you.

I learned to cook not to fill the hunger inside,

but to starve it into silence,

to hold the pain steady like a patient’s hand,

to make something burn slow,

beautiful, and somehow, alive.