Not my tea

I'm a little teapot

Short and Stout

Here is my handle, here is my spout

That was my favourite rhyme, when I was FIVE.

At ten, I smash teapots. I break its handle; I break its spout.

I smashed it through my gran's window when I catapulted one on the backyard's seesaw.

Teeeeaaaaaapot! What has gotten INTO you? Look what you've done! You apologize to Gran right this instance!, yelled my mother.

My body shook as I heard the shrilling voice. My mother's silhouette behind the porch door's mesh; her body arc; her anger devours the entirety of the doorway. I dragged my feet towards the door.

It was an accident...., I whimpered. (It wasn't. I hated my name, I hated teapots. What good is a teapot if it doesn't want to hold tea? Is it just a Pot? And why of all the things in the world, I had to be a Pot for JUST Tea? I told Tom, my bestest friend in school, that I don't care how I'm gonna do it, but I'm gonna be a pilot. I'm going to be the first Teapot that flies.)