---

 

There are lives that unfold not in sunlight but in steam; in trials that demand surrender rather than strength. The teabag, unnoticed in its packet, finds purpose only when thrown into chaos. It does not scream, it does not resist. It gives. It dissolves. And it is remembered, not by what remains of it; but by what it leaves behind. In this quiet monologue, a teabag becomes the voice of all things that break to become beautiful.

---

 

They kept me in the dark,
Dry, dignified, and whole.
A papered little prophet
With a leaf-burdened soul.

No one asks a teabag
If it’s ready for the flood;
One moment I was perfect,
The next, I met the scalding blood.

I sank like silent guilt,
No protest, just descent,
While hope unraveled slowly
From the thread where I was bent.

The water wasn’t cruel,
Just honest, raw, and hot.
It asked for everything I had,
And took what I was not.

I bled into the silence,
I perfumed every tear,
And still you watched me calmly,
As if pain was meant to disappear.

This is what we do,
We quiet, dying leaves:
We flavor lives of others,
Yet no one ever grieves.

You’ll drink me to the dregs,
Then toss the husk away,
And I’ll be in your bloodstream,
Long after I decay.

So steep me in your sorrow,
Let me darken what is clear,
For even dying has its purpose
When the end draws someone near.

---

 

In every life, there are moments when we’re lowered into our own boiling cup; when we give all we are, not for glory, but for warmth we may never witness. The teabag teaches us that not all who dissolve are lost. Some simply steep into others… quietly, eternally.

---