This cup of joe never lies. Sip, as it drowns my mouth. Wash me whole but filled with holes punctured previously; Coffee flows freely. My second cup, the third drop tastes familiar and stale. Three-fourths sugar but bitter, made sour by spoon. Dangling, stirring - I shall finish my cup soon. And what have I learned? It takes a little bit of German and sweet-sounding French to blend the Irish, Mexicans; when I stare, I leave a welt. I leave a welt. I do it so well. I leave a mark; it creeps up your neck. It strangles then spits venom on your face. It will wipe, it shall lick the scars left by Grace. Your saving grace - amazing grace - coined by days, years 6 years, perhaps, 5. Count to 7, down to 8, 9, 10 - the 11th, you die. And my cup, it overflows. It overflowed, caffeine-sweet. The bitter had gone sour; the sweet, sweetened by spit.
Written back in June 2008, after experiencing a most uncalled for rejection by my (then) beloved.