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


clean my orange, favorite glass,

and fill it with addiction.