A Ghost in the Kitchen

Imagine waking up to a quiet theft, And finding nothing of the things you loved is left. As crazy as it sounds, the morning brew is cold — The coffee that you cherished, now bitter to hold.

Imagine standing over a stove you used to grace, But the joy of your own cooking has vanished without trace. Blotted out completely, on a random, heavy day, When they smiled and said, “You’ll make a good wife one day.”

It is like waking up inside an altered frame, Controlled by your own skin, but no longer the same. Something in you shifts, a quiet, breaking change, Your own desires faded, unfamiliar and strange.

No longer moving to your own rhythm or clock, But bending to the boundaries of the people on your block. You do not go to the kitchen when your own hunger cries, But only when the hunger in the house begins to rise.

No more waking late, stretching into afternoon light, You rise in the cold morning, packing tiffin boxes tight. No more throwing laundry in on a Tuesday night whim, Now it’s every three days, standard, scheduled, and grim.

Imagine the confinement of the passenger seat, Relying on a driver just to step onto the street. Imagine letting go of every spark that made you whole, Just because the people round you want to crush your soul.