Image Source: Huffpost
I wouldn’t think of it much If the tea I so love to drinkWouldn’t have found a genius wayTo trickle down my white t-shirtLeaving a stubborn brown stain.She would then find her way downEvery time I wear a white top.If what I wear is already stained,She doesn’t bother to leave her mark again;Maybe she knows to not knock the same door twice,Maybe she identifies her own marks.There are seasons when I love to wear whiteBut I can never wear the ones I own, not againBecause her scars don’t leaveAnd I can never give up on a cup of tea,So I let her spill and stay where she wants to be.If the top’s not white, she doesn’t bother to drainMaybe she knows to not hurt the ones that don’t feel pain.I never spill her on my black cardigan-She is picky that way, not to fall for anyone.Every white t-shirt I have ever ownedScreams of her taste, of her skin tone,I wouldn’t mind losing so many clothesIf it weren’t for her pickiness About the hues she chose.Because every time I look at the tea-stainsI am reminded of my careless mistakes-Those I forgot to wash in the rain.
