Prose Poetry: Spilt Milk

Don’t cry over spilt milk, they always say. As if sorrow is akin to something as useless as weeping over milk containers emptied onto the floor or the table or the countertops. As if sorrow is truly so silly. But sorrow is like spilt milk, is Spilt Milkthick and pale and fast spreading and hard to clean. Sorrow is cold like spilt milk, is as sudden and frustrating and it gets in the cracks of everything and dries up there, unfound. Sorrow is shapeless like spilt milk until it takes shape, until it ends where it’s going to end and extends in all directions all at once, tentacles spreading out, seeking more ground to cover, to engulf. Sorrow is as unpreventable as spilt milk, as unforeseeable, as greedy and manipulative and consuming. And sorrow goes rancid like spilt milk, the scent leeching into porous surfaces and reminding you it used to be there. Sorrow can be cleaned like spilt milk, mopped up, strained into the sink, flushed away. Sorrow can be wiped down and dried so that what’s left sparkles, the remnants only found below the surface, eating away at the foundations. Don’t cry over spilt milk, they always say. Because the time you wasted crying is time you spent allowing the spilt milk to sneak into everything. Seeping into the cracks, into the crevices, into the porous openings, so that the spill cannot be undone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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