It was the last biscuit. The very last in the jar. The jar was transparent. Everyone that saw it would look at it but no one wanted to have it. It wasn’t expensive but it was quality. It was made with love and care. It was beautiful. Almost too beautiful to eat. It had curved edges, curved edges like a shortcake biscuit. It had soft handmade cream in the middle and a swirly design on the outside. It resembled that posh damask pattern which they use mainly on wallpaper and curtains from the olden days.
Then one day someone finally came and reached for the jar with the biscuit… but, as he reached someone else reached for it too. They batted to and fro offering the biscuit to each other. Eventually one agreed and took the biscuit and thanked the other guy for allowing him to have it. Without a care in the world He dunked the posh biscuit into the tea. I hate tea… Quite strange for an English gal like myself to hate tea but I do.
Anyway back to the biscuit…
He dunked it into his tea and swirled it around as if it was a spoon. He pulled it out and half the biscuit fell back into the tea. He then ate the other part with out any acknowledgement that the biscuit had fallen to pieces and was sinking like the titanic to the bottom of his mug. He drank his tea with no care in the world and at the end all that was left was a soggy mess sitting at the bottom of the mug.
That’s the story of a broken heart.
Not every story is as it seems. Sometimes you have to read between the lines.
-BITCHES-✌️
itscarabitches 