The Kettle | Madison Potter​

White knuckles test my patience.

Eager, you check the clock: What does it say?

That it’s not over.

Feel like you’re filled to the brim with it.

All the while you stay poised.

What could that feeling be?

Pressure upon the ribcage. Surge of agony nestled in your chest cavity.

Gums numb. Jaw tight. Adrenaline tickles your fingertips.

Hot. Pounding. Pulsing. Poised.

Give it time to ferment in your belly and you’ll regret it, or maybe the others will.

Might erupt but to save time you only simmer. Who are you saving time for, anyway?

When you leave a kettle you don’t blame it for boiling over. You blame the one who wanted tea.

That it’s not over.

Feel like you’re filled to the brim with it.

All the while you stay poised.

What could that feeling be?

Pressure upon the ribcage. Surge of agony nestled in your chest cavity.

Gums numb. Jaw tight. Adrenaline tickles your fingertips.

Hot. Pounding. Pulsing. Poised.

Give it time to ferment in your belly and you’ll regret it, or maybe the others will.

Might erupt but to save time you only simmer. Who are you saving time for, anyway?

When you leave a kettle you don’t blame it for boiling over. You blame the one who wanted tea.

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