cup of tea

There’s an empty cup of tea on the floor – but it’s not my cup of tea.

There’s memories of things I didn’t do and I didn’t say, but that somebody thought belonged to me. Why should I have to deal with them anyway and clean up a mess that only exists in somebody’s head?

Pitch black eyes piercing through my integrity.

I didn’t want it to become my cup of tea, but nevertheless it did, and despite who I am and what I stand for it seems like I had no choice. I was never asked to choose nor whether I wanted to choose.
I think of all of these things while sipping tea. But there’s two cups on the table, and I might as well be drinking somebody else’s tea.