I sip coffee,
black, no sugar, no cream,
and hope so badly that you see me
with my arms stiff,
my eyes burning violet,
my throat humming,
buzzing like a swarm of wasps
clearing the area;

I despise coffee
but not as much as I despise
the shame you walk with
or the silent stares
angled in another direction.
Look at me
with coffee that hurts
and twists my stomach;
it exists much like you,
a crutch to feel alive
but it only causes nausea.