I'll Never Force My Child to Drink Spoiled Milk

White house, white walls, white hands, white family, white in a glass, nothingness and a sour stench.

A hand on her hip, a scowl, a stare, how dare I let her money slip away, how dare I be so wasteful.

The mother forces the cup into her daughter's hands, and the chunky punishment commences.

A waste of space at the table, a kitchen connected to the door, four steps to the outside world.

The child runs away, leaving the thick flesh of milky residue, the glass, and the so-called parent, to drip dry.

Until her legs grow sore, and white cheeks turn red with anger and fatigue, she wonders desperately, how many days until adulthood peeks?

I’d count them on the tips of my fingers.

I'd sneak home and pour the remainder of that torture down the sink.

There’s a prepubescent girl along the road, with a white mustache above her lip, and even in my immaturity, I know, I’ll never make my daughter drink spoiled milk.