Clink, clink. Plain, soft water.
I drown more than I drink.
“You say I am selfish.”
Smoke from steamed rice
fades away like a battle ring.
The spice in your words I must swallow.
Too much spice , my head spins.
The glass chandelier feels too narrow.
My name on my plate, I carved,
fading because some cutlery
felt too sharp.
“You retort I am greedy,
always in want, always needy.”
My mind flies to the sky,
beyond the burning stars.
My ears sound like a flatline
as I swallow the hot gravy.
A passing bell rings in rhythm.
My plate is blurred, way too thin.
People laugh at my face,
say my looks do not match
our family DNA race
fair skin, silky hair.
My fork clatters, my shoulders sag.
Generational beauty I lack.
Plate, plate
fit in like bread.
Will I get dinner if I am late?
Someone chimes on my fate,
telling the little ones,
“Don’t be like your sibling
mess is all she can make.”
My lip trembles before I can blink,
searching for a spoon,
tasting, retching, spoon by spoon.
On the chair, I can’t fall apart.
I am dusty like an old cupboard,
when people wish not to see you long.
How can you pick up the broken plate?
Wishing for dinner alone, yet no place you belong?
“You must swallow. You have to.
Don’t be ungrateful.
Such a bad child , shameful.”
Keep it inside until
it comes out as rain
when you must return here again.
Heavy breakfast, seasoned with pain.