I made myself a cup of tea.
It was made of water, sugar,
warmth, leaves, and shape.
A lonely cup of hot water,
birthed into existence
only to be consumed.
Boring and small and not loved
and not hated
and not thought of
and not wanted
by anyone
but me.

And so for a short interval
between its assembly
and its death
the cup had purpose,
to be drank from
and enjoyed and digested
until its reserve
of taste and liquid
is exhausted.
The best purpose
that a drink can hope for.

But the cup of tea
was quickly forgotten
by its busy creator.
He, I, had other affairs
of a human nature
of which a tea
could not be aware,
or understand,
or control.

I was gone
But the tea was still there
left alone on my desk,
its warmth leaving its body,
its scent attracting ants
and flies
and other raiders and scavengers
of leftover nutrition,
its temporary value,
its purpose,
dwindling away.

The tea would run
somewhere, everywhere.
Anywhere
would be better than here,
than the cold desk,
the dark, so thick and shallow.
But the tea had no legs.

The tea would scream
It would call for somebody,
everybody, anybody at all.
"Save me! Drink me! **** me!
I can't love,
and nobody loves me,
I can't smile, or hear, or see.
I have nothing, I am no one.
I hate this world
in which I can only ever be
dead
as long as I am anything.
Save me! **** me! End me!
Me, who is cursed
by existence itself."

Save me, end me, know me.
Love me, please, love me.
Me, who is childish and empty.
Me, who cries over spilled tea,
and doesn't care
about anybody but himself.
Me, who knows nothing.
Me, who loves nothing.
Me, who is no one.
Me, who feels betrayed
by existence itself.