Teacup

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The hot water 

drips its gentle song 

into the old teacup, 

  

its soft floral print 

disrupted by a crack, 

its jagged teeth 

subdued by a  

thin line of off-white glue. 

  

Yet the sharp edge 

still slices my tongue, 

crimson dripping a  

violent note into 

the tea’s easy melody. 

  

Tiny ceramic shards 

still find their way  

into my gut, 

quietly tearing into  

my insides. 

  

The label on the tin  

says ‘chamomile’, 

but all I taste is hurt, 

and every word 

I swallowed,  

and blood.