underneath the rusty metal

water
droplets
come in
troupes,



slithering

along

the sides

of the

teapot,


crashing as waves
and swirling in loops


and as the teapot fills
the water spills.




the hot stove is a battlefield
where soldiers
f
a
l
l
and
screech.

dust and smoke reach my cup,
whitening the room like bleach
but


why is it so hard to give up?




"pick your...