I am sick of being asked to swallow down my words like the last drips of warm milk leftover from breakfast. This pathetic cup you are forcing on me, is not mine to drink, you fool. Resistance is futile though with pockets as empty as mine. Rather, I must sit and hold your stare while my lips wrap around the rim gulping back all pride, reason, and principle, while you keep shoving Knowledge into a blender until it’s unrecognizable, even to yourself. I’m finally starting to understand your fixation with blenders. This new concoction is overly sweet with a thick inconsistency of meaning served over ice. I smile and nod as you’ve asked me to do, quietly choking on the unexplainable chunks lodged in the back of my throat.
My Milk’s Sour,
A Warrior Princess