sweet tea and bitter coffee; burning and healing - the poem

i wrote about

a

girl who liked sweet tea once.

i’d love to meet her.

sit in front of her and share a pot

of the loveliest nicest

warmest (not hottest)

tea.

i’d brew it

so carefully,

with shaking hands

and teary eyes.

sobs would

wrack through my ribs,

playing me like a xylophone,

but i would smile through

it and ask if she would prefer skimmed

or semi - skimmed milk.

the clock would tick in the background ,

and i would keep laughing through my tears

as she told me how her little sister

never bought the right biscuits.

i know how her story ends.

i know how my story ends?

i’ve flicked to the back of

the book and

i’m not sure i want to read it anymore.