The Kitchen
In this house, we roast the whole pig, darling.
Not for vengeance—
For precision.
For ceremony.
For remembrance.
When we serve, it’s sizzling.
Center stage.
Fresh out the broiler.
You’ll hear the skin crackle before you taste your own missteps.
You’ll smell the seasoning of the ancestors before you even realize you’re the guest of honor at your own reckoning.
This isn’t fast food.
This is Maison cuisine.
Slow roasted. Velvet plated. Impeccably garnished.
If you feel heat?
Good.
It was meant for you.
Now straighten up your napkin.
And mind your posture at the table.
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I use my disgust of you to select my garbage bags.
Harnessing what I should’ve said to you into the schema of my trash receptacles... soothes me.
I’ve always appreciated a dash of red in my aesthetic. But, your drawstring, has never been helpful.
I’ve mentioned it many times—
but your narcissism refused to take feedback.The bags are beautiful.
But, they still leak….
This isn’t the place for your proper paddling. But trust, you’ll be addressed—every time I get dressed.
I left so you’d stop trying to collect yourself in front of me.
You see, I’m the knight of this heritage.
It requires pawns to be out of my face so that I can spear them properly. Take two steps left and one step back.
I need you in formation. L-Shaped.
“Hoe” would be the cheap shot to take here.And I’m far from cheap.
But alas, we’ve all now learned—you don’t deserve me.
Last I saw you, I used a dog whistle for your dismissal. It’s one of the rare tones you actually understand.
My galance left you so confused didn’t it? That grace had you thinking you were safe. You thought you’d defeated yet another Tauren bull huh?Our patience and serenity often tempts the ignorant.
Beware that my horns are even sharper than my tongue.
How could think you wouldn’t get this eclipse? You study the charts. You call Cleo faithfully.
I tried to end this drag four puns ago.
But my ancestors want you punted.
You know my pedigree well.
Atlanta, by way of Fort Lauderdale. Nigga.
My grandmother says she has her hot comb sitting on charcoals— ready to separate your kitchen from your mustache. Carolyn’ s hands are quite heavy, darling.
Be warned.
They insist you pay reparations for your lack of recognition—and for my extensive generosity.
Nothing less than full payment will be accepted.
You’ll pay by grief in the meantime.
Consider it your downpayment.
The allergies you suffer?
That's the dander from our palm grove after pruning. It travels so you can feel the shade from afar.
Those 47 extra pounds?
My lineage made sure your metabolism would never regulate.
Effie—you will indeed be going. Side door.
We don't dispose of trash through the front.
I’m sick of your weak drawstrings.
Aye! Don’t let them tears hit my mahogany floors on the way out. Salt causes damage. Save them for the curb.
Bulk pickup is on Tuesday, it won’t be a long wait.
This is the last time I’ll give you what your father never did: Clear Direction.
You know you crave structure.
Stay on the ground.
Keep your curdled legs closed as long as you can,
and resist the urge to arch your back.
The gag ball will remain lodged until further notice. Move one quark—and I’ll remind you how close the ground really is.
There will be bombs all over Baghdad if you attempt to stand up. Don’t pull the thang out unless you plan to bang. We both know, you’re not built for this kind of recoil.
The last sliver of masculinity you have left?
Use it for restraint.
It’s the only offering the ancestors will accept. It’ll be your only salvation.
My manhood confused you into thinking you had some. It’s the slip from the drip I brought to your life ain’t it.
You ain’t a man, nigga. Stay in your lane and do not attempt to merge.
Accept this as a warning shot since you foolishly misread my glare.
I’m daddy now.
And you’ll be spanked when I’m ready. Follow directions next time, darling.
This ancestral choke you feel on your throat?
It won’t be alleviated anytime soon.
My heirs will decide when you’re allowed to gag for air.
Closure doesn’t come in a lacefront.
The Djordje Estate will mail what’s left of your edges directly to your gravesite—
First Class postage, darling.
You know how we do.
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