The Art of Letting Things Spill

There’s a trembling kind of fear in my hands. I hold on to it tightly, my palms now red from the pressure I am applying. Fear running through my veins, the consequences of dropping it on the floor, a deathly image clouding my thoughts. I clutch it tighter, both hands on the brim, as if I am a child all over again believing I could crack eggs with my bare fingers. 

I calculate each step, my breath a threat to the truth I am holding in. My heart beats faster, my skin itches, and my throat shrieks in agony desperately trying to let the air flow to my lungs. Tears blurring my vision, I shut my eyes taking a long breath before swallowing my words back to where they belong.

Water on the verge of falling, I stare at it, as if my gaze is a superpower that could miraculously prevent the water from dripping out of the cup. But my gaze was cut too short and I blink, that subtle moment of a released breath reminding me of the things I used to fear. 

Splattering across the floor, the cup fell out of my hands, a canvas of emotions painted right in front of my face. A reminder that the cup of water was never meant to be clutched, but sipped, acknowledged, and felt.

20.10.2025