She hurried to the kitchen and onto the stove.
Water was boiling, spilling from a small pot.
She turned the flame off. She held me. Oh, love.
Water was pouring off the pot, turning me hot.
She stirred linden blossoms in my cup.
I felt relaxed. I said, “babe, drink me up,”
but I was too hot, her lips just managed to blow me off.
——— And in the black counter top, she left me alone.
She rushed to the bedroom to then came back.
The radio was playing “Don’t break my heart.”
She held me with her hands again. Then whack!
I burnt her. I heard a crack. She let me fall apart.
She ran towards the street to never come back.
I saw it in her eyes, she was in pain. She cried.
Her mom came to the kitchen in a panic attack.
She couldn’t believe our relationship died.
She tried too hard to pick me up
after all I was her favorite cup,
But I was broken and shattered beyond repair,
In the end, she said, “in the trash can, you belong.”
This was the story of the teacup
The one that got broken,
because it got too hot to handle with a touch.