It isn’t just a refill.
It isn’t just replacing the burning liquid in a cup one time after another until my stomach is screaming at me to stop.
“There’s no more room. You are full,” it begs.
Meanwhile I’m staring at three tiny droplets and a clutter of ground up coffee beans at the bottom, wondering why I’m so afraid to taste it cold.
I know my cup is empty. But my insides don’t feel warm enough yet so I also know I am not full; stop telling me I am full, there is so much more room in me I swear.
I am a little lost girl stumbling upon a party that was thrown for everyone including me for once, so dammit it’d be rude to sit down and not drink.
So I drink, and I drink, and I drink as much as my cup will hold but oh my God, why does it still look empty?
It’s just a refill. It’s just a refill. It is just a refill.
It isn’t a coping mechanism so that staying awake doesn’t have to feel more tiresome than the sleep I don’t get.
I swear, it’s just coffee.
And I know I only drink it black, but can we please pretend that it doesn’t taste bitter?