the impurities

xxiv. coffee stains

Black coffee—bitter with the taste of you—every morning. I'm trying to wake up. I'll turn this void into a swirling cosmos—how sweet can I make this? The sting on my tongue sends me into a fearful fog, so I lace my poison with sugar and milk.

It helps me forget, until I fall back asleep.

But waking up is getting harder and harder.