Death In A Kitchen

She is weeping into the stew.
Like kittens paws needing softly at their mothers teat,
She kneads the dough.
Methodic melodies she sings as she continues,
Weeping through the song,
Continuing to stir the stew.
Like shackles she is chained to the stove,
Then she picks the basil from the stem,
It smells like its color,
The color that makes her envious of other women who love their kitchens.
Green is her face as she is sick with grief.
Green is in her eyes and splattered across the counters,
the stew bubbles over decorating the kitchen in thick broth.
She holds a knife up to a chicken breast,
As she prepares to slam the blade into flesh.
She quivers,
She shakes,
She breaks and turns the knife.
Her eyes the color of wild vines and crawling,
As she turns the blade
her eyes growing
She ends a life.
She ends the fate of that which disgusts her most.
It is bloody,
clashing with the green hardness of the stew.
Dead are her fears,
In the body of a cockroach.