The other day, I burnt the rice. With my mom away in quarantine and my sister unable to cook rice at home, I––the type of person who could only cook mac and cheese, and cup ramen––was in charge of cooking the rice. Following my mom’s instructions via text, I put six cups of rice into a pot, rinsed it several times until the water became mostly clear, and started the heat on high. I set the timer to twelve minutes.
Within eight minutes, I could smell something burning, but I wasn’t sure. I checked on the rice, and there was a faint smell of burning accompanying the steam that arose. However, being the clueless person I was, I figured that the smoking was normal and continued to let the rice cook.
Tumbling down a spiral filled with war,
Bullets hitting my bones and
Ringing in my ears,
All because you two cannot stop
Playing with your guns.
That she loved me, tat things were okay,
That sometimes, when the skies thundered