hot tea
depression knocks like an old friend reluctantly, i let her in for a cup of tea she asks me if i want her i say i do, but i also want recovery and could it be that i could have both loves? but then that really wouldn’t be love at all because she is not love she is hate in disguise, apathy dressed in pearls and black silk the lies she feeds me as we sit down with our tea can’t really hold up to the Truth (which lately, i’ve been trying) but still, she drives a hard bargain, a convincing argument then when i’m tempted, i remember that Truth and the way it filled me up so completely but then comes the guilt when my hand reaches back towards my friend’s offering, so easy. with each lie i digest, she swallows me up from the inside then teaches me how to make those misery tarts on my own but surely, I must be intolerant with the way my stomach squeezes in pain after those lies slip down my throat i know we’ve had enough when i am filled to the brim with heartache and hot tea, and truth seems out of stock. the hot tea scalds my throat - it’s the kind of burning you can get used to because if it burns, it means you’re feeling and sometimes, that’s really all you need to know take a pulse on your pain, make sure that it’s still breathing. kindly, i show her to the door it’s been real fun, but i can’t take anymore it's only glorious in a way that leaves you aching and exhausted from such a high cost and I need to rest in Truth so now, i must ask you to leave - but i’m sure we’ll have tea again next week
– a.l.r. (june 2020)
















