Half-heartedly stumbled her way
Down the eight stairs that lead
From her bedroom to the living room

Quiet was the air
Sick was my stomach
Bright was the tree

Lucy, pranced around
Coat bright pale
As the ground outside

My brother, groaning as the stairs
Creak under him, following
My mother’s steps

“eat” she looks at me
“I can’t I’m sick”
“ Good” she stares

Glass in hand
Day hasn’t even broken yet
“it would be good for you to become a little anorexic.” Her mouth pushed out with aggression

I was 11.