Inhale the steam.
It burns your lips, their puckered vulnerability the perfect victim. Their innocence is lost and it shows; from soft and pink to swollen and red - any chance you had of concealment immediately vanishes.
Inhale again.
It stings the back of your throat, floats down to your lungs to mingle with the poison lingering there.
Take a sip.
Just a sip. Nothing more. You can't handle more anyway. It scalds your tongue and you swallow quickly. Your mouth fills with the metallic tang of blood. You'll still feel the evidence of the drink as you walk home, smacking your lips in vain attempts to sooth them.
You settle for warming your hands on the outside of the mug, letting it's warmth seep into you, defrosting your blue fingertips.
Here the heat is comforting, welcome.
Any closer and it's menacing.

No matter how many scalding showers that sear my skin I take, nothing can thaw the cold that has seeped through to my bones.
Hot cups of tea do nothing to warm the hollow pit of my stomach, to melt the chip of ice in my chest.
Whiskey burns my throat, but nothing else.
Holding my fingertips over flickering candles blisters my skin while the rest of me succumbs to frostbite.
My tongue feels frozen solid, a leaden weight behind my teeth.
I'm freezing to death from the inside out.

(kiss my blue lips, breath some life back into me)

People write poetry about girls like you
Sickly sweet
With candy lips
And sugary giggles
Pastel coloured claws
And caramel highlights
Mile high heels
And cold white gold hearts
Dead eyes beneath full lashes
And an endless list of boys
Still clinging onto your little finger
Where they'd been wrapped so comfortably 
For far too long

I've always found the concept of seeing the future in the dregs of a drink, ridiculous.
How are the leaves supposed to know who exactly has consumed the drink,
Let alone what may or may not happen to them in the near or distant future?
Do the leaves absorb a modicum of your soul
And use that to project predictions unto you?
By that logic, is it so the more tea you drink,
The less of your soul stays with you?
I may be the only one, but I find that idea to be very discomfiting.
I drink rather a lot of tea, you see.
At least a cup a day.
And now I fear it may be the cause of my untimely cynicism.
Of course, that may just be my tea-addled brain looking for something to blame it on.
As it is, I will continue to blame all negativity on witches and psychics and herbs and tea,
Because there is no one around to prove me wrong,
Or provide an alternate answer.

When you find out Santa Claus doesn't exist
When you can't find that shirt in your size
When you find out your parents' marriage isn't as perfect as you thought
When it rains after you make plans to go to the beach
When nobody remembers your birthday
Or your favourite cake
Or that you're afraid of clowns
When you only score a B on that test
When you give up on yourself
When you realize you aren't as strong as you once thought

Everyone is made up of salt and water and pastel colours and stardust
And each of these things has a part to play
Correct?
Correct.
We couldn't survive without them.
Each of these elements is fundamental to our existence
They would not be
Without us as hosts.
So I wondered
If it's selfish
To want someone else to become a fundamental part of our existence
And to be of vital importance to theirs.
To have someone depend on you as they do the water and salt and stardust.
I've come to the conclusion that it may be selfish
But it's most definitely worth it.

It's obvious
It's so desperate to be near you that it has literally become part of you
It has found a way to sneak through and melt into you
And I'm jealous
Because I'm desperate to be near you
I worship your skin as the salt does
Your hair as the sunlight does
Your eyes as the laughter does
But I fear you may notice if I endeavor to be with you in every sense of the word
So I will continue to brood
In partial silence
Forever envious of the salt and sunlight and laughter