At last...drinking time!

Are we..out of lime?

No worries then—

Let’s have it plain.

- What say ye?!

#OuiNonPeut-être?

The steam from a hot cup of tea makes for a captivating visual, especially on cold winter mornings. Cupping your hands around the mug and feeling its warmth can sometimes trigger emotions along tangential directions. 

It can summon memories as well as desires.

"Neha, tea is ready! Come, let's have it together!" was my mother giving me a wake-up call on most mornings after I graduated from school. School days were obviously different; and, early. 

Many times, she would simply warm her hands around a steaming hot tumbler of tea and then cup my face or neck in those warm hands to wake me up. 

Waking up looking at her ever-smiling face and then tucking my head into her lap and hugging her tight before I rolled out of bed was a daily ritual. 

And though, most mothers would advise for the hygiene ritual of brushing before I had my tea, my mom was chilled out. As long as I did maintain the ritual, whether I did it before tea or after that was immaterial.

The aroma of tea that filled the house early in the morning and her chirpy voice calling out, are memories that come rushing back to me every time I have the good fortune of getting up early and having a cup of tea. Most of the times, though, I avoid getting up just for the lack of that loving experience.

A mother is irreplaceable but a companion/partner would make for a desirable morning tea as well. 

Sadly, I don't have one yet. 

Hence, while I miss my mom a lot over the morning tea, another thought crossing my mind at the exact same moment is the yearning for a loving partner whom I could trouble with my mindless ramblings early in the morning.

Ahh! That morning cuppa and the love that it evokes!

It's a myth, I think

To expect our children not to see color

Instead, shouldn't we see

And celebrate

Our differences

Our sameness

I am a French Canadian

Catholic chick from

Small town

Hickville

I married

A man raised

In the city

Hispanic

Colombian

Our daughter describes

Herself as 98%

Colombian

Cooler, yes

But, a mathematical

Impossibility

Yet

Should my daughter date

A Black man

My in-laws

Would protest

Why?

I cry

White girl

Hickville tears

At their

Hypocrisy

Soumya painted on the bed.

The thousandth time her canvas, red,

Exploded in the splotchy scene-

A dying man bereft a spleen.

Eternity, her lot it seemed,

Ascended past the life she dreamed

And when a knife drew drops of blood,

The echoes washed her as a flood-

Soumya, now a hell spawned leech

Embracing powers in her reach,

Decided prisons of the mind

Elicited her only bind.

A succubus now summed the length

Of who she was; her inner strength

For tasty vengeance had a price-

A serial in murder's vice,

And when the Lord of Hell took note,

It's wasn't long before the tote

And totem of her fancied style

Became his glowing, wicked smile.

"Soumya," Lucifer would say,

"Now run along! Those boys you slay

Are quite delightful in my fold.

Your methods, well, are bloody gold!"

And who was she to turn this down?

Revenge, avenge, it was her crown!

"The devil's due," she often said

And bottled blood; she loved to shred

The entrails of some hapless fool,

And sometimes she would even drool.

Enamored with a life of lust

At times could be a bumming bust,

A demon hidden underneath

The outward flesh; her garland wreath

For luring mortals in the trap

Until fatigued, they took a nap.

Unmitigated horror's cape

Surrounded as she bore the shape

Of who she was inside the skin.

She knew the devil wore a grin

For Lucifer, above them all,

Expected death to be a ball.

The wanton wreckage she would leave

Suppressed the notion some would grieve.

Or maybe not; most been were gags-

Cremated ash; assorted bags

Atop her head, a sweet disguise.

No graves to mourn their hollow eyes.

The lipstick shades around her mouth

Bespoke of somewhere deeper south.

This time, however, feeling guilt,

She wore it like her mother's quilt-

The one she used to use at night

Before her rape and loss of sight-

The way a mortal values life.

The only thing she loved- her knife-

Invited freedom from the pain.

Unfortunate, for Hell's domain

Explicitly endured the plot-

A torture field; a lake so hot

The demons even felt it's heat.

No, there was nothing safe or sweet

And as Soumya entered through

The gates, she longed for life's renew.

Surprised, she found a rose of black.

Accepting it, she saw a stack

Of petals urging her to move.

The sadness losing in a groove

Rekindled something she forgot-

The pang of joy; the tummy knot.

And as she went into a flame,

Her parting lips released a name:

"So, Lucifer, what have you done?"

The devil smirked, "Let's have some fun!"

Soumya, startled, took a chance-

Enveloped in his horned romance.

However, what he didn't know-

The succubus had seeds to grow

And as she used a special blade,

She stole his life; his body flayed.

"Now who's the Lord of Hell, you pig!

It's just another grave to dig.

No biggie; nah, I'll toss you in

And gorge myself on every sin.

You see, those men who took my youth

Devised their plans from you; my proof

A simple visit to the lake-

A soul in torment, no mistake,

Becomes an open book, you see.

So all of Hell belongs to me."

And as she sucked him, munching bone,

She sat atop his gleaming throne.