Reading the tea leaves of myself

I am not who I used to think I was

Not that I was ever particularly specific about that

But I thought that I was clever and strong

I thought that I was confident and resilient

Resourceful and independent

I thought that I would be good in a crisis

But when the crisis came I melted and spread into a damp puddle

That then crystalised, brittle

Fractured and cracked

Weathered

And crumbled

Into a
Myriad
of pieces

Flakes of my former self

Leaving me to read them like tea leaves in the bottom of a cup if I am to feel any connection at all

To the self that was what I was

Poet and mother

Reader and lover

Wanderer and dreamer

Flier and thinker