Tea Cup

The rain falls in my tea.
In the special cup with red leaves.
Plastic.
Unbreakable.
I hold it tight in my hands.
As I pace back and forth.
Grasping on tight to the white rose.
Vulnerable.
Wet behind its petals.
I stroke it good morning. A soft whisper.
I lean forward. Incline my head.
Trying to hear. Tell me what is left inside what is left.
The mirror does not answer.
I snap the camera in the single hour of darkness I am allowed.
Hold my finger to my lips. Lick.
I find it in the morning. When another day is gone. When last night is nothing but a figment. Shattering like the mirror spilling out of room 23.
The rain falls in my tea
It hides me. What I feel.
My little red leaves like the candles around the stoup.
Back in the place I cannot remember. Don’t remember.
My plastic unbreakable stoup.
I wipe the water on my temples in the dark in the window with no curtains with blood on the walls.
I wish my cup was empty.
I wish it could be more.