|Image Source: Huffpost|
I wouldn’t think of it much
If the tea I so love to drink
Wouldn’t have found a genius way
To trickle down my white t-shirt
Leaving a stubborn brown stain.
She would then find her way down
Every 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 white
But I can never wear the ones I own, not again
Because her scars don’t leave
And 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 drain
Maybe 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 owned
Screams of her taste, of her skin tone,
I wouldn’t mind losing so many clothes
If it weren’t for her pickiness
About the hues she chose.
Because every time I look at the tea-stains
I am reminded of my careless mistakes-
Those I forgot to wash in the rain.