A prepubescent blossom clings to its stem- hard and waiting to ripen,
Premature and precocious, desperate to grow
Clutching onto its providing base, It throbs with an ache to be fed
When suddenly a muddy hand plucks it from its grounding,
tearing and abusing it until it is nothing but a small pile of shreds
It has been minimized into a dark mass of flattened scraps
Shavings like glitter, laced with leftover dirt and air.
Directly across the globe
It has arrived to me: eager like a growing flower,
a self-interested consumer, waiting to be fed.
I remember sitting with my parents on the livingroom couch.
They ask how my day was and my mother makes me tea
Dependent as I was, I was embracing youth but still always waiting for adulthood
The tea was handed to me, I clutched onto the hot handle
To at first tentatively sip,
then devour the last luke-warm gulps
of the extracts and antioxidants
What was in my cup were the only remains of the victim of an untold murder story.
And yet, I've continued to flourish and grow
Diving head first into adulthood
Assisted by the health and comfort
That the aborted remains of tea blossoms have given me.
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