A librarian sleeps inside my teacup,
turning pages with steam-soft hands.
Each sip releases a hush of footnotes,
citations swirling in the milk.
She shushes the kettle when it whistles,
files my thoughts by Dewey and doubt,
and when the cup runs dry—
my morning forgets how to speak aloud.
But when I look inside myself for answers,
she stamps my heart OVERDUE and locks the door from within.
Poetry Hub 
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