See my memories of my grandma’s kitchen is not like that of yours

It didn’t smell like lavender or fresh lemon detergent

(It smelled like herbs and the raw meat of a deer’s heart it smelt so much of bleach I didn’t know why till I was older)

I didn’t sit on my little chair waiting for the pies to cool

(I gazed upon blue potions waiting for the colors to explode)

The first time I messed up while cooking didn’t just end up with a scratch

(It’s a burn from my waist to my collar bone and the bones under it still ache   )

The sun didn’t not dance in our kitchen or kiss my little arms

(Rather it’s the moon that cradled me and let me sob my eyes red and dry)

See

we are not the granddaughters of princesses 

-we are the granddaughters of witches you didn’t dare burn