The tea tastes like coffee because the jug once had coffee in it and you are inscrutable stains Caleb made on the sofa after impromptu nights with Emma – I can almost make out Australia. And even the second, bitterer cup can’t shake the taste with sugar. You’re the crack in my right eye. The skin I pick off of my heels.
This wasn’t a mistake until you made it one and you had every clue, knew solutions, like bleach, were exonerating. Instead, you patched clothes, reattached arms to old dolls and hoped the tears would mend. They didn’t mend.
Instead, you’re an uncertain park walker, unsure if the castle’s open, if the coffee truck is trustworthy, whether to keep dogs on a leash.
You’re my revelation daily, a well structured sentence or Bible verse revealing a truth or jam smacking me so that I stand up or sit down at a person’s request. This is the opportune moment to ask for your money so I’m asking for it. And this, my collection plate, is a beg or a preach or a charity video designed to make you feel the guilt that I’ve taught you to feel.