Dinner Time
Dinner time! mamma yells
and she already feels sick
to her stomach.
It's not that mamma's
cooking is bad.
No. It's what the mirror tells her.
There's no money for shrinks
so her therapist is a razor,
words of comfort cutting
into her skin.
Dinner time! mamma yells again.
She bites her lip,
tasting the wine of her misery.
I'm not hungry! she yells back,
her voice rippled by the first tear.
Jaundré M. van Breda © 2018
