Subservient confetti

She wanted to write in first person. But she doesn't ever put herself first, so she always writes in second person. She is listening to a retro Bollywood track and her heart is melting. She bends her forehead down closer to the page and then she realises she hasn't turned off the pressure cooker. She enters the kitchen, She's cooking words today. A voluptuous load of fanatic fries along with steamy yet sanctified stew. She's so grateful for the food for thought and her stomach rumbles for the intangible knowledge that never fills her appetite. She needs satiety but she's given more. The gunk from the destined tap is made of rainbow sprinkles of sauf. She smells of mint. She knows she has to get better and not bitter. That's why she replaces the bitter gourd curry with her fingers on his dinner plate. He chews the steamy, forbidden sacramental stew. You are a poor soul who can't chew the stew. She's always trying to be a Sub. Not the Sub in a sandwich, silly! The Sub in Subservient. She puts him first. He stands tall on the Altar. She now thinks of equity. She claims to understand humen. But one of them recommends to try ramen instead. That's when she accepts

that ramen tastes better than Sea Men. She wants to be a popstar for the coming week and pop some corn for her kids at home. Instead she pops some champagne from the minty gunk. He blows her out of Proper Potion. The retro hindi track is still melting her.