My little sister was stuffed into a teapot,


Its waters are constantly boiling,
And she blames visions invisible to me,
I cradle her burning *** and begin to pour,
As if she’ll come back to me,
But her hair flows into my teacup,
As she refuses to come out,
But no one can see her stuck in her teapot,
And she can’t see the light outside,
Nor hear the cicadas chirp her name,
As the stars fall from wanting to meet her,
Yet the shadows stuff her back inside,
As the world sings to greet her,


She writes notebook after notebook of poems,
Eloquently portraying her teapot,
And the beasts who’d quickly harm her,
But each one winds up thrown away,
As she’s chosen to turn from her gifted talent,
I wish to capture each wrinkled page,
Mounting them on wall after wall,
And give the cicadas a museum of her words to marvel at,


Each one more strange and surprising than the last,
Cat’s meow symphonies of comfort,
As black horses raid the night,
Yet her sacred bible of words,
Shed sooner destroy,
Feeding the fire with her glorious imagination,
As it’s fueled by beauty,
What beauty could possible be created by a girl trapped in a teapot,
What beauty could be found in such a crevice,
And yet she’s found such powerful inspiration from such a space,
But refuses to call upon her power and adore it,
I might as well have a teapot setting in my brain,
Pouring tears for every flame,
Every spark ignited,
Every work abandoned,
She holds a knife to the page,
And slits it’s throat,
As if this creation inside of her,
Is capable of death,
And with each cut,
Destroys pieces of her own heart,
She slides the strands through the spout,
And pretends they’ll disappear,


My sister is stuck inside of a teapot,
And refuses to come out.