You told me it wouldn't work because I am milk and kittens. Because I am strawberry bubblegum breath and tea, not coffee. That's a lie. It's because I'm afraid of merging onto the interstate at rush hour. Because it's not funny to me when your parents call cigarettes dinner, their bruised elbows splayed on that stupid, red checkered tablecloth, that stupid, picnic tablecloth. Because I cringe when they hoist your brother up like a sack of potatoes, his fat, baby head unsupported. It's because I had to look away when his white eyes rolled like marbles into the back of his skull.