cups

week one:
if these coffee cups could speak
they would complain about how i used them and let them sit
with a centimeter of breakfast blend in the bottoms of their ceramic
for the past week on the dresser.
"please, we have dust on us."
i ignore them.

week two:
there are more of them now.
the eldest speaks to cups still warm, cream floating on top.
"don't get your hopes up, i have mold growing inside me.
she doesn't notice us anymore. she goes back to bed.
we don't warm her up enough for her to stay out for too long."

week three:
ten cups. they line up, seeking me out to ask if they can go back to the cupboard.
i don't answer. they will slowly forget.
"this is where we live now, no use in kidding ourselves,"
they solemnly resign.

week four:
"oh! who are you? i don't think i've seen you before."
"i am her vodka soda glass. surely you've seen me on the shelf.
sometimes coffee isn't strong enough for her. that's why i'm here."
the cups whisper to themselves.
"do you think this means she'll get better soon? since they're more substantial?"
the glass chimes in, "no, i don't think so. we still have a long way to go."
a collective sigh can be heard as they watch me pass out at 1 am.

week five:
"is she going to wake up soon?" they all wonder out loud.
"she's been there for a long time."

week six:
cups and glasses on all surfaces. ants have found their way over to the
honey-sweetened ones. they don't speak to each other anymore.
silent worry about the figure under the duvet.

week seven:
i wake up.
"hey guys, i'm sorry. i know i haven't taken care of you like i'm supposed to.
please forgive me. i haven't been myself lately."
"we forgive you. are you okay?"
"i think so."
i fill the sink with hot soapy water. my hands carefully scrub the vessels clean.
they deserve better. i'm trying my best.
i place them in the cupboard.
"take care of yourself. we'll be here tomorrow."
"thank you."
"always."