Beour

The smell of bleach, flesh and something more
All holy white walls glow, but one, a mirror
Where meat is torn, belly filled
No sound but forks on plates

And small ,small, small
They are not so very far away
Content around the table
All but sister, full plate

Seeing in the other wall
The small folk and
The shit that drips
Watered down from the upstairs room
The other room where the family sits

Sister:
“What is this mother, dear?”
Family:
“Oh, that is just the mirror. Now finish up so we can go to sleep.”

Her plate is finally cleaned
But the smell won’t leave her nose
And the promises of windows are nothing
When you can’t even look out your mirror