Give me white
pure and clean and
unspoiled
silken milk.
Draw the bath
and fill it with gallons and gallons.
White on white,
the milk on my skin.
The milk washes away my scars,
repairs my framework,
makes me strong.
Recently, I've been lacking in calcium.

Funny,
the things love does.
Love invites me away from milk.
Try some hot chocolate, love says,
it's so rich and deep and seductive.
Have a glass of lemonade.
It's a shock of ice and summer
frosty and sweet like sunlight.
Drink the cider-
we'll go on windy, rusty adventures.
But in the end,
after the hot chocolate is dead and cold,
and the lemonade is watery and sour
from melted ice and not enough sugar,
and the cider just fermented dregs,
all my encounters with love flash before me
and I stumble and realize
that I've been burnt and frozen and drunk.

Though, the funny thing is,
I know love didn't mean badly.

The milk bath calls my name.
I'm taunted by myself as I soak it up,
lying in the tub.
Drown yourself in milk.
But I won't.
Milk is safe and comforting and special.
I owe it my life and sustenance,
carry it in me.
Milk is my medicine when I have bad love.
It makes me strong again.

I need a milk bath now,
I think.