Sherbet

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Mamma brings me sherbet
Every morning
In the color of blood.
They reminds me of the morning
In which I saw actual blood
Corroding and turning black
Underneath her bed, vomitted.
She says he loved her greatly once.
He hit her yesterday too.
There’s dried blood in her broken lips
Like dried red hibiscus.
She won’t kiss me now, (true loves kiss)
She’s scared that I might incur
The same fate as her.
So tell me now,
Does your love also smell of anemic blood
Will I be able to kiss my children
Without being scared of their doom?
Will I be able to give my children
Milk every morning
Or is it sherbet in red?
So tell me now,
Do you love me truly or greatly?

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