Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • When she was six,
    She spilled milk all over the kitchen counter.

    Her father spoiled her til her thoughts were no longer fluid,
    Legs were useless,
    And she began to taste sour.

    Her mother, she could not hold her.
    Though, she wanted to, but could not remove her.

    Drowned in pills and drained with dreams,
    Her mother, no,
    She could not hold her.

    At sixteen, raw but sweet,
    There were things that she could drink,
    But more things that she could swallow.
    She consumed milk in powdered forms,
    And the only thing that would hold her,
    She held in rubber.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.