Blue Cheese

My mother likes blue cheese. She said it was an acquired taste, Only the most sophisticated, Dined on it’s musky scent. Though I hated blue cheese, I swallowed it down. Hard. Grotesque. There was nothing I hated more than blue cheese. But if it meant being accepted, I’d pretend. Over time, Blue cheese became my friend. It made me laugh. It comforted me when no one else could. Who cares if blue cheese hits hard? Is grotesque. Was terrible to no end— Blue cheese made me feel loved. So I’ll ignore the abuse. I’ll pretend. After all, My mother liked blue cheese.