Let’s compare Roderick to a teacup,
brimming with the warmth
that he syphons off his friends
and diverts to himself,
much as heating ducts do.
His self-pity and lack of feeling
exudes from his body
like ribbons of steam
from his Darjeeling.
All pretty on the outside,
rimmed in gilt not gold,
inside he’s cracked.
Miniscule fissures
from age and the heat of incendiary
ferocity riddle his psyche
like tributories,
like capillaries.
Always emotionally arid,
he looks at you as if to say:
Fill me up.
But all the love you give him,
all the kind words you pour
into his thirsty china cup
evaporate
and return to you as distilled
condensations—ungratefulness,
tea that has brewed to long
and become bitter.
At last, drained and empty
you decide that sometimes
a favorite thing such as a teacup
is broken and can no longer
contain your appreciation
and provide you with pleasure
and you either consign it to the back
of the cupboard, bequeath it to someone else,
or throw it away.
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