[Intro] White cup. Black root. You called it care when it tasted like you. [Verse 1] There was milk on the table every morning, cold skin shining in a silver cup. Mother said, “Drink what the house gives you,” so I drank till my throat locked up. Nobody named what lived in the sweetness. Nobody asked why the room went still. There was something green at the bottom, something bitter that never spilled. I learned love with my teeth closed tight. I learned peace from a bolted door. I learned family means you swallow what they swear won’t hurt no more. Now the spoon keeps touching porcelain. Now the old debt hums in the walls. You can call it revenge if you need to. I call it remembering all. [Chorus] Wormwood milk, bitter on the tongue. I was raised on what you did. Look what I become. White cup, black root. I learned revenge from the hands that fed me truth. [Verse 2] Every room in this house has a witness. Every chair knows who went cold. There are names scratched under the varnish. There are lullabies growing mold. You taught grief to keep a clean kitchen. You taught rage to lower its eyes. You taught children how to sit quiet while the grown folks sharpened lies. So I don’t scream. I set the table. I let the candle bend and sweat. I pour the milk like it is mercy, watch it bloom with what you left. There are families built like poison, passed from cup to cup to cup. By the time you taste the bitter, you have already drunk enough. [Chorus] Wormwood milk, bitter on the tongue. I was raised on what you did. Look what I become. White cup, black root. I learned revenge from the hands that fed me truth. [Bridge] Don’t say justice like it comes clean. Don’t say blood if you mean machine. Don’t say home with your mouth washed white. Some houses nurse you just to teach you spite. I wanted softness. I wanted bread. I wanted one hand safe on my head. But the cup came back. The root stayed in. Now every prayer has a bitter skin. [Final Chorus] Wormwood milk, bitter on the tongue. I was raised on what you did. Look what I become. White cup, black root. I learned revenge from the hands that fed me truth. Wormwood milk, cold in the glass. Some things don’t heal. They learn to pass. [Outro] White cup. Black root. You called it care. I called it proof. [End]
