très | july 6

photo by polina tankilevitch

You made up a tray,

with orange juice, a glass 3/4 filled, too tall but you wouldn’t have known; and coffee, with exactly 1/8th milk and 2 cubes of sugar, which I don’t drink but you wouldn’t have known, toast with one tsp of butter per slice, which I would never eat but you wouldn’t have known, and one slice with jam. Two perfectly fried turkey sausages, which make me want to vomit but you wouldn’t have known. A flower in a small vase, which makes me sad, but how would you know?

You present it to me, with a smile on your face, so genuinely looking for praise, so genuinely longing for love, so assured of being accepted, of being thanked, of being rewarded.

I take both my hands together, formed into one thick fist and smash with all my might through the tray as you present it to me making sure the glass breaks, the plate breaks, even the tray breaks.

Why? I see on your face you’re surprised for some reason. You stupid fuck. It’s all poisoned. You poisoned it yourself! You know you did, but you can’t let yourself remember. You’re the victim. I’m ungrateful.

Who was this fucking breakfast for, anyway?
Someone you didn’t know.

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