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Coffee
The glass mug
orange, my favorite one
Every night,
my fingers curl around the handle
shaking, I hold tighter.
Raising my other hand
to help me bring addiction
to my quivering lips.
The brutal heat
trickles down my throat.
It burns like the hell I belong in.
This energy,
false energy, I use to
slowly kill myself.
I wait paitiently
but with wobbly knees
and twitching eyes.
I wait paitiently
for the crash,
the mental breakdown,
the tears.
Crying myself to sleep
so that I can't get my body
out of my bed
swallowing me back into the darkness
into the sleep I can't get at night.
I don't like waking up,
then I would have to
NEED TO
clean my orange, favorite glass,
and fill it with addiction.
