Of the Kitchen

Eventually, there comes a time where there's nothing left but to sit on your kitchen floor, back against the fridge or the cupboard or the stove, head tilted back, and admit to yourself that you're not perfect, you're not supergirl, and you never will be. And it's alright. Because it has to be.

Even when my bedroom is lit softly by my lamp, and my bed is all made and everything is in it's place, I still come, at the dead of night, and fewer times in the bright light of day, to the kitchen where there are usually piles of dishes and the stove is cold and there's possibly nothing here for me at all.

And I sit. And I don't know why. I just sit, and I cut off hunks of cheese or eat a container of sprinkles, and I watch my cats wondering why I'm here...

And I know, each time, that it is not my last. Most likely, I'll keep coming into the kitchen for these odd, quiet times that no one else seems to understand. Even when I leave this house for one of my own.

Perhaps one day I'll put in a plush chair. Most likely, it will sit unused.


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