Cuppa

She makes coffee like it’s heaven’s honey, and I sip it like it’s a kind of poison. Tastes good though, but this is it how it works all the time with us. What does she add in? Some kinda black magic I can’t be dealing with in the long run, for sure. Because I can feel it, the need. To just slit my throat, grab a noose, casually bring a toaster with me to the bath. It’s not me, it’s her. I’d like to believe I was her strongest victim yet. Because here I am, handling her and her bloody nonsense. 

She says she never wants to be her mother, the hypocrite. A spitting image! She gives excuses to justify herself, is a loud obnoxious thing, inconsiderate to the world around her. On a good day though, I might call it cute. But not today, not as she hands me today’s coffee. 

She’s not always this bad, I promise. She’s an angel on her best days. She makes everyone laugh. When she speaks her tales, she lights up the room, and not many can do that, trust me. She has hands of gold, cooking for hundreds of people like it’s no big deal; she is a woman of luxury; she makes sure everyone is comfortable in life and love. She hates it when others feel alone, and within a snap she becomes their friend. 

But she’s hurt. Real bad without her realising it. All those years of people doing her dirty. She tells me these stories. Slips from her lips when she’s had one too many of her favourite Sienna. Blended Brothers Brand, pfft, figures. She whispers them when she’s up way past sleeping time and her sleeping pills have effect on her. All those words she uses, makes my own heart ache, knowing she would’ve never told me this if circumstances weren’t so. 

I think that’s why I stay, knowing if anyone’s able to hold up, it’s me. Because she’s brilliant and beautiful and bold, she is deserving of someone to hold up to her. Perhaps with time, someone can handle my own poison. Perhaps I’ll just die eventually, unfinished coffee cup dropping to the floor. Or perhaps with time, I might survive, even I might be rewarded. Till then, however, it’s just another day drinking a cup of her poison. 

About Seethalakshmi Muralikrishnan

s.muralikrishnan@student.reading.ac.uk'

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