The World of Myth Magazine

Her hands soak detergents
of different odors
and turn numb
as she polishes each palatial floor
but she ends up
in a cramped servants' cubbyhole.

She stands behind in
every family dinner,
her lips firm and
stomach in tears.

Her thin frame,
any teenager's dream,
is brought about
by years of hunger, restless fear
and undernourishment.

Her sad eyes,
any artist's muse,
remain cast down,
her longing and desires
seen and felt by
the ground she treads.

She wraps not her body,
but her face in an old blanket,
which hides her tears
of the day's insults
and muffles her sobs.

Her pillow has thinned
with her anger, distress
and nightmares.
But she sleeps on,
hoping for a better tomorrow.

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