KITCHEN: poem by Adrianna O'Shea
And upon hearing that word, I find myself alone, In the Autumnal half light Cooking my first meal in this new place: Curry from a jar and undercooked rice.
Later, the kitchen, still soulless and new, Is filled with the faces of people That I don't yet know, I recall the clashing of regional accents and glass bottles,
In the morning, I find them empty, assembled In a row of different shapes and colours, Glinting in the sugary sunlight. I cast them, one by one, into the abyss of a black bin bag.
The pin board is now adorned With take-away flyers and dealer's cards, Which dance like bunting in a harsh breeze. I sit on the sofa, talking through a film that I don't care for.
'I went to a life drawing class today, And then when the guy came in with his dick out I was the only one who laughed- to my dismay.' The finished drawing- a disproportionate figure
With bulging thighs, lies on the pinboard, The yellow paper curling over the days and months. We pose jokingly for a picture with the fiery haired man, But I'm still convinced he was my masterpiece.
That night, a nylon wig and fake blood were my accessories: A reimagined Ginger Spice. I threw the first pumpkin that sat softening on the window sill, Which prompted a drunken, competitive fight.
Other nights we sat in the darkness, cross faded, With Bowie's tingling guitar riffs blaring, My eyes glowed green as their whites turned to red, And I didn't even try to grasp the last ounce of clarity in my head.
Maybe I should have done. The houseplants withered for lack of light, And oil burned in the pan, making the
Room opaque with thick smoke.
I slammed the door, my hair dripping, My body shivering, but not because of the cold, March night. “How dare he!” I roared, ripping through the silence, As a Converse-clad foot ripped through the dry wall with a
Thud! Then, I exhaled, shocked, eyes wide. Fractured plaster lay at my feet. I stared at my creation: A black, foot-shaped hole, A fall from grace that I knew I couldn't hide.
That evening, my flatmates laughed about my fit of rage, Stunned by how out of character it had been. We wrote a message and placed it an empty vodka bottle, hoping it would be found by the future residents of the
Weeks later, the perpetrator of my anger Stuffed a dying bouquet of white carnations Into the open hands of the wall: A protruding peace offering.
I had my own alteration to make to the room, Pinning an Ikea bag 'round the perimeter of the burning ceiling bulb, An action which plunged the room into a mystic blue, Dark shadows replacing the familiar faces of friends.
The time had come, and I thought, That the kitchen would look better as an aquarium.
Adrianna O'Shea is an aspiring writer from an old mill town in Greater Manchester. She loves to write both poetry and prose, usually choosing to focus on social issues and emotive personal experiences within the landscape of Northern England. Now based in Leeds, Adrianna is studying social work at university. She loves to explore new places and meet new, interesting people.