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insomnia with my coffee

my mind doesn't exist

for the hours that follow my wake

i sleep a perfect slumber

throughout the day,

and my mundane tasks become melatonin

even as fluorescent lights

invade my better judgements.

friends grin at quips i do not understand

their pity leaks through

their masks of pleasant disposition,

in their pictures i rarely appear,

for the soil shifts far below my trembling feet,

attracting my vertigo close,

leaving my presence indistinct and blurry.

my belongings strewn carelessly

across my bed, my shrine,

sprout eyes at night,

watchfully gazing over my feverish stupor,

and upon my wake,

their unspoken taunts follow me

and marry themselves into my morning coffee.

everyday, it seems

i prod harder and deeper

at the soil of my eventual sepulcher,

colors will soon blur into one

distasteful, horrid puce: the color of my blood,

corrupted by the bitter whispers

of the coffee that keeps me awake.

when will it come time

for me to wake up to a warm bed

and a cup of coffee

void of acrid whispers and echoes

when will I learn to stop taking insomnia with my coffee

Editors: Uzayer M., Luna Y.

Cover Art by Shea Sinha


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