I Hope It’s Blood

I hope it's blood.

I hope it's actually blood and guts,

and that I get to try some.

I hope it's fresh blood that’s spreading

across the blank surface, soaking into the

fluffy white of my mother’s lunch.

If it is, I’ll ask to share.

She says no. I only mentioned bodily fluids a little.

I’m told to make my own lunch

and to stop being “childish”.

I think she means disgusting or revolting or horrible.

Or maybe disturbing, perturbing, morbid.

And I am a child. My mother should know this.

Instead, I examine her. Chew, swallow,

bite, chew, chew, chew, swallow. Smile.

There’s a bird just outside the window.

It stares at us, beady eyes prying, but I’m

the only one watching. I’m the only one awake.

Chew, chew, chew, chew. Swallow.

It’s getting harder to hear in the room. The wind

isn’t howling, there’s no wind at all, but everything

outside is twirling and crashing and

my mother is still chewing up blood.

She smiles again, and I jump. It’s silent.

Her red-tinted teeth gleam at me,

warning me.

What is it?

They mean she’s not what a mother should be,

that I’m not safe here.

That’s what.

“Honey,” she says, and her voice is honey,

“why are you looking at me like that?”

Honey drips out of her open mouth and

plops onto the empty plate. It’s tinged with red.

I’m tinged with fear.

“Honey?” It’s sickly sweet in my ears,

on the table,

dripping down her chin.

I can’t move. She’s motionless, too,

but her eyes seem closer to mine.

I’m not sure what blood is supposed to

smell like.

No.

I wasn’t sure.

Now I know, and it smells exactly like power.

I don’t want to share Mom’s lunch anymore.

I want my own.