Dear little teacup,

I found you at the thrift store
Nestled amongst the big teacups
With your shining gilden lining
And your pretty petunia shape
You filled my heart with love
Although you were only 1.99
To me, you are priceless

Dear little teacup,

I cannot wait to place you beside
All of my precious collections
With your lovely violet finish
And courting man and woman
Surrounded by trailing little flowered vines

Dear little teacup,

I imagine you've been lonely
Without your friends for so long
Don't worry little teacup
For I will keep you safe

Who lied that the moon hung only in the sky?

I poured the moon in my teacup.
It was floating.

Mouthful moonlight.
Glorious celebration of an orchestra
from scattered crickets.

This broken teacup of mine,
Lays on the floor.
Pieces scattered and crushed into the carpet.
A mosaic of pain.
This broken teacup of mine,
Stabs and slices,
As I pick up the shattered porcelain.
White stained red.
This broken teacup of mine,
I can’t put back together.
I remember it fondly from when it was whole
And admire its new beauty
As I wait, patiently.

There's a storm in my teacup,
An ache in my head,
A plethora of words,
That are better unsaid.

There's a monster inside me,
That never stops speaking,
Though I try to control,
The havoc it's seeking.

You think I'm a good person,
But I do not agree,
My friend: you only judge me,
Based on what you can see.

All my cigarettes cant create all these moments that I crave
The smoked out thoughts, and careless talks
Leaves me breathless, in the kitchen

You never see what I want to show
All the taped up glass, masking the broken teacups
The roads unlit, the day sweeps into dusk
Alone in my self;
crowded with all these cracked dishes

Never able to let the cloth catch the dust
The last meal, has reached the minute hand
Through the window, a single star staring
Watching me inhale, as the smoke covers the broken cups

i'm full to the brim
of insecurity
from the words
that you fed me
tip me over
i'll spill
it might burn
but i'm left half empty
pour me out
of the lie
that i need you
to be full

i may be a teacup running low
but i am whole

The honey in the lion sounds like a delicious thing––
a gentle balm capable of subduing
the cruellest of monsters.

According to the stars and tattooed,
you fancied yourself king of the jungle––
lazy in hot African afternoons.

Golden and tawn with sleepy sun-gold eyes,
shaggy mane, muzzle red with
the blood of a gazelle.

Did you think me such easy prey?
Or was I so much fermented honey,
only a sweet intoxicant.

Sun warmth seeps from jungles of cold concrete.
I mistook your gargoyle wings
for those of a guardian angel’s.

I overlooked your rough skin, your
crooked hawk nose and your skinny ribs,
and assigned fine things in you that didn’t exist.

So duped, I acquiesced to your slimy kiss.
Your mouth a neglected cemetery,
teeth a row of mossy tombstones.

Vampire. Incubus. Your seduction like grotesque death.
You named me tempest in a teacup,
but I was the eye of the storm.

Until the night the eye was eradicated,
and the storm blew in,
striking me dumb with your sound and fury.

But no spattered blood and no spreading bruise
to be found in the pattern of the kaleidoscope.
No cause for alarm.

Today I am lost in a picture show,
a beautiful world coloured by nostalgic past.
Women’s lips the vivid red print of a velvet valentine.

Head in the Clouds, I fantasize about a certain scene.
Because you think violence is ****––
retaliation – ******* in my dream.

Give me an eye for my eye,
for all the eyes you plucked, from women and breadwinners.
Give me blood running down your back, sweet as honey.

A smudged grainy ring against blue lines
it cuts through his handwriting like a breadknife

the blue ink ripples with the water-damaged paper
reassuringly human amidst the bleached whiteness