Captive

Her gaze is lost

among the bubbles

of the boiling water.

Uncooked pasta stands on the counter,

nervously expecting its timely death.

Arya sets her floral apron

to fit nicely along her waist;

she pours the pasta in the pan

and sets the timer:

the ticking reminds her

of her youth going to waste.

She loves baking –

cooking is not the same:

plain and boring,

dull work for the woman

with artistic ambitions.

Her icy blue skin means

she will never fit in;

an outcast with alien blood.

Enslaved by vicious ruminations,

she forever stirs pots of pasta

while her head sinks in sorrow.

A peek at the calendar

hanging on the wall:

seven weeks until she holds a piping bag

in her moisturised hands

to decorate Maggie’s birthday cake.

Until then, seven weeks

of cooking boring meals,

washing dishes,

doing laundry,

cleaning floors.

~

This poem was first published at Steemit as part of The Sims Diaries.

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