A poem about Hate and Tea

Your excuses are like weak tea
to me
Chamomile at best
Mild, unsatisfying
Not even brewed, not even squeezed
Dipped, waved over the cup
like a spell
a summoning
Still your tannins get through
“Just a cloud,” as the French say
(which, of course, you would know)
A cloud over my day
The aftertaste of an addictive drink
You leave my mouth feeling ugly
and repulsive,
longing for toothpaste.

I reject your weak, tasteless tea.

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