I make a fist and bleed into the cup.
                       Now the milk is pink.

His grandfather gets angry
                       when you call something that is not milk, milk.

I say hello milk, so nice to meet you.
                       I milk your favorite grandson and god, he milks all the time about you!

I used to be able to feed for days
                       on making this kind of man angry.

They are always so precious about their white and, already, stolen things.
                       Tell me, when is the last time they have been precious with you?

For two years I slept in front of one.
                       I found no word for “effect” on his tongue. They move, cause, move, cause,

They boil an egg, then gasp at its new hardening.
                       They are careless, then wonder at your thumb-licked bruise.

A great uncle dies and they are rich at 19.
                       Their mothers pick them up before they even make it to the lonely part!

When they are swinging their ego
                       you will always be too close.

If you doubled your hands as a shield
                       you’ll need pictures of your palms.

It goes (at best): evidence
                       then apology.

I have days of recorded sound.
                       A room mildewed with my quiet. I sent them to him.

Audio in the shape of my wrung eyes, my dirty scalp. This is how they learn!
                       One hand over the milk glass. Two fingers, laid into a stitch on his lips. I teach. Tell.

You don’t have to swallow everything you find beautiful.
                       Look, this cup: Pink as a new love. Rancid.