I Wrote This Two Years Ago (Can You Even Deal?)

I was restless, foot tapping, coffee sipping. I couldn't stop myself. I sat there with my dirty hair, and my wrinkled blue jeans. Porcelain coffee cup in my hand. It's delicate, with a blue flowered pattern along it's base. The coffee is hot, and I can feel it through the thin porcelain surface. I am restless, and am growing bored with my life. I take a sip, and it burns on the way down . I try to swallow and small tears form in the corners of my eyes either from the heat or something else that I'm trying not to think about right now. And through them I see something completely different.

A different world. A different life, in a different time. A world where well dressed people make polite conversation, whilst concealing their snide remarks. A Victorian age, when women wore petticoats and men had finely combed mustaches. A world where coffee was served every day at the same time. Where soft, buttery pastries were passed around on silver trays. The women gently fanning themselves in the Summer heat, the sunlight pouring through the windows and glinting off every surface. A slight sheen of sweat on their foreheads, their dewy skin looking less like porcelain with every unimaginably warm sip. Then men sit and talk about business, while the women talk about the men. And everyone is talking, and everyone is talking about everyone else. It's a dangerous world to live in I'd imagine. With just the wrong words spoken, reputations are ruined, fortunes are lost, families fall apart.

I feel like I'm getting farther away from it now. It's a world I don't belong in, and I know that. But it's not that much different from my own. With just a few wrong words, you can easily ruin a family. You can break the delicate bonds of friendship and trust with just a few slip ups. It doesn't take much for me at least. So I ruin my relationships like a badly worded bull in a china shop. And as I realize this, the porcelain cup falls from my hands and hits the floor. It shatters into a million little pieces. They sparkle, and glitter over the granite floors. They cling to my hands as I try to pick up the pieces. And I can't help it, and I can't change it. And I can't move to that world of polite conversation, and I can't say I'm sorry enough. Not because I don't know what to say, I've just run out of words. I have completely run out of words.