Stheno’s Kitchen

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Tick tick. Tick tick

Tick-tick-tick-tick

Tik-tik-ti- Ding!

They’re ready!

Mittens. Pan. Table.

Hot! Hot! Hot!

Setting them down by the busts to cool.

My hair gets impatient sometimes,

hissing at the smell of those freshly baked meat.

I pet them down and put them in their place.

As I walk through the kitchen, I smirk at those hardened eyes.

Perseus will one day taste my mastery too.

Plate. Plate. Plate.

Fork. Fork. Fork.

Chair. Chair. Chair.

They call themselves Gods; playing with the helpless human dolls;

Creating freaks of nature like little Perseus.

So very tiny, so much desire to impress, so so close to being stoned to death.

Her only sin was being flawless; all she ever wanted was to be loved.

It was Jealousy, prejudice and injustice; the family that proved

the downfall of my baby sister. Their heads will mark the sacred ground

where she lay. I will turn their bodies into a temple.

And she shall be worshipped.

And she shall be immortal.

Euryale!

Fumble fumble fumble.

Snakes in a mess.

Eyes bloodshot.

Poison dripping from the side of a fang.

Sister. Sister.

Let’s eat.

By His Grace

"Stand still." and I do. My body only moves as
his tongues commands. He defines me so. His word is law.
I, a mere sheep, follows his voice. They call him Master. He
yields moments with his hands, arresting parts of me. If I
listen well, he will make me immortal. Years after, they will
chant his name but it is the form of me they seek. He creates
timeless angels with the earth, not clay but wood.

"Beautiful" and I smile, just for seconds. An indiscretion
never to be made again. One day, I will be adored by thousands,
bought for millions. My body would be seen by the wealthiest
supreme and the richest poor. No one will see my porcelain face.
Many would hold my robust palm, full of grace, but none will
feel my tender caress. Brilliant! They would exclaim. The
details are exquisite. Unforgiving bastard.

"Stop wandering." My arm aches with the control he reigns. His
furrow speaks his displeasure. Was it for me or her? He is talented.
His chisel hammers repeatedly hard into me. His eyes have left
their lingering gaze on every indentation of my flesh. His mind has
played and replayed with every position of my thighs and my flaws
and my scars. His fingers has touched every inch of my brown skin.
I see him grow art with his wood. I smirk.

"They are going to love you." Show off. He blows the splinters
off my nails, intricately manicured. By His grace, I will soon hold
the power to make the fools drool and the politicians think. My feet
will wield their minds, entrancing them. Hypnosis will be the spell
they gladly come subdued. My breasts will entice their lips. My arse
will make them heave. My sex... Shhhhh. They are going to want me.
But they will love him.

They will not know me. She will be rejoiced as I roam back in
the shadows I came from. He has made an angel out from me.
He has made her perfect with every curve and every line. Her
presence, as large as her self, glows under the artificial lights.
He signs his name - six strokes that seals the digits in his
wallet. I pick up the change with my bare fingers.
"You are not worth the money".

Purple Guitar

G chord for starters. Let me sing you a song today.

It’s about love, like how all good songs are, for you, of you.

It will tear you apart and touch your heart. You will beg

and plead and cry. May mercy be bestowed.

Maybe not.

E minor to spice things up. Let us go on a ride to space.

You shuffle amongst the stars. They burn so radiantly, like how all good stars do,
  for us.

You flush with the envy of success, wondering
the intensity of enduring pain they mask to feed the fire.

The molten stomachs that do not churn in the face of fear.

The evaporated veins that do not bleed emotions
but empty promises once made by self to self, aged twelve.

The crumbled bones, shrapnel from war, with nothing left to break,
leaves no trails of cracks.

Yet, a 7^th, you flush in the vacuum you stand, for the vacuum they are within.

You crave for the constellations, trophies of achievements displayed
in the palm of your hands, bright red and searing.
Your artist speaks for yourself.

You drink through your windows, savoring each sip,
never letting cherry lips taste a drop of iced gold.
Your masterpiece of failures built on failure speaks for you.

See, you feel. Feel, you hurt. Breathe, you live.

The ticking at the corner has no meaning to the girl dying inside.

Time stops only for the poor unfortunates to cherish regrets.

Hear, the critics, yourself, muted, so loudly.

Guts twisting to the scribbles pending pen.

Embrace the moon, reflection of your light, as time pauses.

Stars too brilliant implode to massive darkness.

Hold on to yourself, do not get lost in the cadence.

D major.

Thinking of you

Checking my phone again,
again. Still no notifications.
Checking my phone again.

Open up Facebook on my browser and
I see no reds on the top right.
Close it. Time to do work. Open up
Microsoft. Type in the header of my essay.
Open up Facebook on my browser.

Do you think of me as much as I do of you?
Of course not. You are amazing, but so is she.
She is kind and caring and broken just for you.
You love her and I... I think of you.

Your hands are magic; the way they move -
dynamic. The music you produce, the music
you command, you capture the heart of
songs and songbirds alike, your voice
resonates the world and makes it
pause

for a minum.
You sang for me once. The keys engraved in my soul.
I still feel the trills and they bring me gliss.
I can't believe it.
I don't believe it.
I cannot believe it.

You are like a work of art; so abstract.
Your heart beats to the rhythm of a dance.
Your alluring eyes amazes me every time -
seamlessly symmetrical like periodic alliteration in a poem.
Your smile, your comforting smile,
bends like the smirk of a quaver rest.
Your clef, sexy as always, tugs on
the bold hard strings of my stave.
Sharps and flats everywhere.

But you are hers and I am not yours.
Those lips belong to her.
Those hugs belong to her.
You belong to her and I am behind the
lens of this happy moment captured indefinitely.

Let me check Facebook one more time.
Do you think of me as much as I do of you?
Of course not. Your dream is her.

I am your prisoner

Chit chat chit chat…

Maybe I’ve talked too much.

Maybe you’ve talked too little.

Maybe you don’t want to speak at all.

Sing. Louder. Higher.

I hate that cord.

Let’s redefine it.

“No, it was meant to be written this way.”

Look at me.

My eyes are red with your tears and anger that hide the

jealousy that doesn’t exist.

I imprison you with chains that are my hands and they clutch

tightly to your face.

Look at me.

I’m sorry.

“I’m sorry.”

Echo is a verbal exchange of a dance

that we know by heart.

We have spoken too much

but it is never enough.

I Love you.

“I Love you.”

Our foreheads pressed against the other

but I feel beyond the physical.

I was sure, there and then,

I am your prisoner.

"WE" was supposed to end later

I used to show off my emotions
whenever I deem fit
to let the others know
if I'm angry, sad or elate.
But this time it's different;
I'm keeping them to myself.
I'm bottling up my emotions
and leaving them on the shelf.

It's because of the embarrassment.
I don't want others to know
so they won't see the shame
that now I do own.
I've failed in this aspect
though it ain't all my fault.
But I can not be the bitch
So my mind's doing somersaults.
Cause you ain't some random one,
I picked up from elsewhere
but a sister of a dear friend
that's great beyond compare.

I can picture the image: the scene
of how it all went down;
your parents giving in
after seeing your slightest frown.
You pleading hard and whining.
Your parents on the couch
and they caved in to princess,
that I can vouch.
They said, "Send her a message
to inform her of this,"
and you ran happily to your room,
with your face gleaming bliss.

So you ended our relationship
with a simple text,
Blaming nothing of the universe
but saying it was stress.
You are bound to face it, honey,
whether you like it or not.
You are an adult taking examinations,
Not a baby in a cot.
It was taxing on me too-
your body full of medication
but it was certainly lacking in perseverance,
determination and dedication.

So we stopped our partnership
before it reached its term.
2 sessions more and probably,
this sadness I wouldn't learn.
Still, I'm glad it's over now
and best of luck to you.
I hope you buckle up real hard
before your time is due.

Ball game with the king

I have been forgetful lately,
Forgetting what you said
And forgetting to apologize
For forgetting what you said.

So I'm here now to say I'm sorry,
But you didn't have to be so rude
To cut me off right in the middle,
Acting high, mighty and good.

So oh your majesty, please forgive me;
For all I have sinned.
Yet, please too explain to me
Why you made such a din.
For the solution was quite simple
And the problem did no harm
Unless, I'm guessing, you've got something to hide,
Or someone you didn't want to alarm.

But it ain't up to me to speculate
So I'm still here, Your Loftiness.
Yet I want to make it clear that
I'm no pushover, stateliness.
The game you play 's in my territory;
I am an expert at it.
And if you end up at the wrong side of the court,
I swear you'll concede defeat.

You cant get your pigtails back

The pigtails strutted across the hall alone.
A walking temptation.
She faced sneers from other girls,

putting her down. She felt inferior.
Yet, she fought the pressure with tears in her eyes
until she caved in one day and

the sneers stopped.

She bled and teared on the bed where
the boy, paid for his service, lay.

She lost her pigtails in the mess.
She strutted down the hall
with the other girls.

As she sneered at other pigtails,
she could sense them sneering back,
putting her down. She was superior but inferior.

With tears in her eyes,
she knew her innocence was gone forever
once the other girls penetrated her life.