The water turns a
diluted rose and hot steam
rises from the cup.

But the tea is not what
matters here, not as much
as the teacup itself.
and the teacup itself does not
matter so much as the jagged crack,
marked with off-white glue
up the side.

And how despite the glue,
I still feel that ceramic edge
slicing into my tongue,
And filling by belly with shards
and cutting up my insides
whenever I drink from it.

The label on the tea bag
says “pomegranate”,
but all I taste is
hate, and every word I never said,
and blood.