Milk in her tea

i feel like i need to hand her over with a manual. like this precious thing who so carefully needs looking after and i can’t let him make one mistake. i need to tell him what to do on days when she tells you she’s okay but stays up until 3am reorganising the kitchen. i need to tell him that despite his best efforts to call her back to bed, he needs to let her. she needs the outlet. an outlet neither he or i could be for her. i need to tell him how she likes her tea; sweet but not too milky despite the fact that’s the way she drinks it. she’s had to adjust to liking it that way over the years. the milk cools it down quick enough for her to down her caffeine in the morning before either embracing the day, or bracing for the day. but she didn’t always have it like that, she’s just had to adjust the same way she’s had to adjust her reactions to people’s behaviour, and her responses to their reaction. the same way a man decided to alter her world; the way she had to view it and the people she had in it. the same way that one day “no” turned into “i’ll just accept it” the same way disrespect and control turned into his nature and she was forced to sway with the breeze of it. the same way small disagreements turned into arguments that would last a lifetime and leave scars for even longer than that. i need to give him a manual on how to care for her she can care for herself but she shouldn’t have to and she should never have to adjust again; not like before forgive her if she isn’t so used to your gentle touch, somebody else didn’t handle her so gently give her time, give her patience forgive her for blocking you with walls you didn’t help build forgive me if i stare a little too long at how much milk you’re putting in her tea