tincture, not the healing kind
you wake up and nobody knows
sad eyes hidden in a cup
black coffee
hidden in the ducts of your mind
it helps you believe
you’re blindfolding the world
black coffee
an illness in the folds of time
sometimes it’s easier not to understand
to tie yourself down and smother
black coffee
no shame in this stain
because you say you’re a victim
and anyway no one remains but you and
black coffee
eyes tightly shut and a weak shield set up
you call this living?
but any spear could pierce my skin
black coffee
tried to make me weak again
couldn’t see the spider sitting in the bottom of the cup
and anyway it was dead (like you)
black coffee
used to burn sitting there
like you
sitting there in your pretend rocking chair
black coffee
staining the pot and yourself
claiming the rot and the wealth
singing the hoarse whore’s screamed death
black coffee