Tea party.

I like to simmer my tea.


An existential crisis, the flow of warm milk and elegant embrace coat the cigarette arms of my being. The spoon lifts its weight and flows into the cadavers of my mouth as I slip into a trance. Caffeinated nicotine swims, ruthlessly, like the flicker of a candle's toe. Grim beverages disguised in syruped honey tickle the tongues of ancestors and scavenging mice. The bees swarm towards the scent.

 

The length of your skin warps into a pruned disguise as bitter regret pours into your mouth. I touch your knees, bending into your motivation, welcoming the comfort of your clothing. The tea lays beneath the shallows of warmth; cold to the touch it rests in ambiguity.

 

Force-fed, bruised ivory, delicate china chips away as the toxins invade the privacy of existence. Just like the tea leaves, minds rot from forceful ambitions. Hope is swayed as the flavours burn a hole, hidden from the eyes of strangers.

 

2/2/23

 

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