This coffee tastes more bitter than the usual cups I've had, but I won't make another because I deserve something this bad.
My mind fills with haze as I put my lips to the cup, my eyes on my table I don't dare look up.
My breathing isn't constant I hold it all in to feel pain, the struggle is my satisfaction the lack of oxygen to my brain.
I can't think straight wishing this coffee would turn to wine, drowning out my unhappiness I'll soon be fine.
I'll shuffle my feet along like everything is fine, I won't let anyone notice that inside I'm dying.