Leza of Clash Books once called me a “human firecracker.” I have often been compared to fire and explosives.

That can be fun, playing with fire, but it’s not something people always want or need. Most times, it’s something people avoid.

When I began to shed my husk and unmask, I wanted to be something people always want, something necessary for survival.

I wanted to be, to be like, milk.

Now, I am milk, or an oat, almond, or soy alternative for the lactose intolerant.

Now, I am mother’s milk, or formula for those who won’t latch.

Now, cum cows get a shoutout in nearly every piece of work. At some point, the cum cows became celestial.

I grabbed ahold of my teats like the mom in Visitor Q and found my special purpose. I squeezed and trapped, squeezed and released, and applied breast pumps when I tired.

I got ahold of myself, grabbed myself by the cum cow Keats and became a true Romantic, started doing my god-work, leaving an extra pint because the cum cow of human kindness always leaves an extra pint.

For mine is a miraculous udder, eternally replenishing, that quenches the thirst of the wayfaring gods, shows hospitality to the gods in a godforsaken age.

When it milky rains, it pours.