*Chop. Swish. Crunch.*
Young women giggled while cooking with
ingredients I bought when the sky was still dark,
a thirty-minute ride to the market, hoping
I got invited to play house—
instead of catching nasty glances
for not knowing how to handle knives.

*Blub. Plop. Sizzle.*
I mopped the floor twice a day because maybe
I’d get to know what you whispered about,
and maybe then you’d ask why I cried
the other day—
I could show you how he colored me black and blue
beneath these clothes, so you’d stop
listening to his sugarcoated speech
about how privileged
and weak I was, how I should be
released from duties—
boy, who are you pretending to be?
My mind, my mouth,
a loving husband?
I don’t remember ever
exchanging vows with you.

*Pop. Sputter. Hiss.*
I heard your laughter—
what a lively group of girls,
I thought behind the closed door, kneeling
before him, swallowing the white and my dignity,
listening to this guy
who played white knight in crowds
but called me whore in private.
No one else around,
and I didn’t know why I was so scared
of severing the red thread—
silently screaming from within,
wishing you heard how my heart
was pierced, blended, grilled.

*Clink. Clank. Munch.*
But here I sat, waiting for my verdict
because my sadness ruined your picnic.
I must have.
My words held no power
against a guy with a good reputation.
And I chose silence—
I learned the hard way
how terrifying girls could be
when they got together—
a witch hunt, a bloodbath.

And I don’t know how
this gap of memory from half a lifetime ago
suddenly pours in
when I can no longer
remember your names—
but apparently,
I still want to die from it.