Existentialist
Anger is the
taste of coffee without
sugar or
milk to sweeten it up.
I want a
little bitterness in my body;
the taste of
caffeine straight up,
keep me
lucid for argument’s sake.
I want the edge
in my voice to stay
awhile, put
up its tired feet and sip
that dark
black brew. I want to flex
and sharpen
my claws; a window
is a window is
a window into my soul;
window being
a different kind of
mirror to
see the person reflected
behind me to
view into them, reaching
for the
blunt object to rid me
from this
earth. Or it is me reflected
back. It couldn’t
be me. It couldn’t
be my eyes
or mouth curled in violence.
And yet, it
is. I can hardly recognize myself;
my form like
iodine in a clear glass of water,
the stain of
coffee on a white carpet,
I have
become the streak of bitter glass.
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