My body is a beach house
And by the study room
with the view of the sea,
There is a coffee table.
All mornings have been made here.
It's a tiny piece of furniture that makes a huge part of life.
The match to the candle, and lighter to the veld fire.
There are doodles engraved on it.
They look like they could mean something,
Like how we are told not to recognize color but they turn around and tell us to tick in boxes.
Like how I'm a holy heathen who listens to the likes of Hopsin and Tech N9ne,
Like how I believe slavery is still alive but simply rephrased and concealed.
But then again, they are just doodles, who cares what they mean.
They smell the like the sunrise and bacon
Like broken hearts and virginities .
Like a shower washing off the previous night.
Like the disappointment my parents will feel when they find out who I really am.
A little girl angry at religion,
Angry at them for forcing it on me,
A little girl, angry at life.
Despite the meaninglessness of this old  scared coffee table, the devil and the angel in me sit in loving peace sipping this deadly caffeine.