She squeezed the teabag once more

She squeezed the teabag once more,

watched the pale water return

back into the same mug—

no shame, no calculation, no score,

just freedom I could never learn.

My mother taught me different ways:

tea was singular and spent,

asking for more was shameful praise

of hunger you never meant.

But this woman—

she squeezed it dry,

drank what came out

like the cup was still enough,

like she had the right

to be filled twice.