by William Morgan
Plaster of Paris, milk, vanilla.
Cruel, deadly. Hardens in the intestine after ingesting.
“I know, you’re strong, brave, stubborn.But,is your baby ? Will she survive? Do you love her? Are you capable of love? Tell me, how do I kill the queen?”
Its eyes blazed. Silence.
I pushed the nipple toward the baby’s lips.
“Tell me! I’m not playin’, I will do it. My son means everything to me. Everything.”
Fear, doubt, hate, love, a kaleidoscope of emotions in its eyes.
My soul shattered when It whispered “I love you” as I fed her the bottle.