There was this teacup I used to pour my favorite herbs.
I held it multiple times a day and it always kept me warm.
After some wear and tear, parts began to break.
I couldn’t bring myself to discard it and instead stored it away.
Either way, I found no use for it as summer was fast approaching
And decided it was a time for it to be replaced.

As pretty as it was, the new one did not feel quite right.
I missed my former teacup; the way it filled my hands.
Mostly, I missed the way it kept me warm
And soothed the corners of my soul.

So I reached towards the back of the cupboard,
Grabbed the tattered teacup and examined its wounds.
I tried to repair the broken pieces and soften the jagged cracks.
I tried my best to make it look the way it did before.

But it did not provide me with the same comfort.
The brew seeped through the marked cracks,
And warmness faded quickly after every pour.
Its wounds inflicted my own,
Cutting my lips the more I tried to consume
As I attempted to endure what had been broken.
The more pain, the more I pushed back,
Until alas, it hurt too much to smile.

So I stopped.
I stopped trying to make it look like before.
I stopped looking for a safe space to place my lips,
I stopped accepting its lukewarm effort.
And now it stares at me, asking me for more.