It's the way I drink my coffee now.
Not watered down, with cream and sugar,
but cut back,  
raw,
and strong.
I don't think it's wrong
to deny myself of this sweetness,
It only weighs me down anyway.
I'm used to it like this
now, anyway.

It's the way drinking translates
a moment to a dream state.
Every interaction flows
then fades,
like grade
school memories.
Existing outside the realm
of reality.

It pulls away, like it doesn't belong to me.
Like it needs room to breathe.
It sleeps,
and sleep talks,
and sleep walks,
then it wakes me up
and doesn't rest for days.

It sits, and waits,
until it's earned its place again.
It learns patience,
from a lot of practice, stretching itself thin.

It is stubborn,
and broken,
but it knows it.
And persists anyway.
This is not resilience
It is the weeds in my garden,
but it is beautiful anyway.
It only knows exisiting like this now, anyway.