Cooked Up

A rose blind-baked in the back of her eye
Turns a porcelain window into a beaten black cavern
She may take a brick
Decorate and wrap it in brown paper
Then allow it to boil not simmer.
Place it in a box and pour in a jug of dissatisfaction,
Eye up the glitter laced around the brim
And create hopes of whisking away any reminisce of a telephone line.
No more wires trapped in words,
Just a broken pencil that is incapable of stirring up sensation on an unloved page.

Sitting on a chair and sieving her thoughts into a bowl of confusion
She ponders over the paint that marinades her face daily
Longs to bathe in her own thorns and wash in her own poison

Fingering the sticks and cords that lean from her scalp
She considers how she’d like to be cooked today.