She lets her tea sit too long.
It festers until mold grows in cups
hidden amongst piles of laundry on her desk.

She collects twigs and branches
as if to build a nest to house her neuroses.
She’s not the kind of girl you’d want to keep around.

But her things smell of peppermint,
dried leaves and oranges
and, if she can, she’ll love you with all her heart.