Glass keeps shattering on my heart, and the house is colder than I remember.
I make some tea to warm, but it’s too hot to taste. So hot that I won’t taste for some time after today.
Turn on the lights but they won’t – can’t do much. A flame cannot warm me half as much as a bulb. It flickers anyhow.
The sun outside is deceiving, so I stay here; grounded.
Blankets are piled in a corner and that’s where they’ll stay.
The cup is my only hope, but it too will break away.