Caffeine and nicotine, wrapped up in pretty paper and fitted with a bow,
because addicts see the beauty in killing things and what could go better with death
than a good old cup of Joe; real, caffeinated, strong-scented coffee, none
of that half-caf, decaf bullshit; you’ve got to have that kick in the end,
the aftertaste that washes over the welcomed feeling of not-you-ness
and blends with the nicotine that wisks you off, letting you float
up to the sky on days when people are tying cinder blocks around your ankles.
You like the burning, but perhaps you’re just preparing for hell
since you’re told you’ll end up there anyway, so go tell people
to cart their dirty looks away, you can even have them wrapped up in pretty paper
and fitted with a bow, they can’t begin to harm you, you’ve handled that part yourself.
You broke down on a sunny day, when everyone else was happy and you felt like
you were in a shitty movie where fake smiles are slapped on the actors between takes.
It’s easier to be miserable when everybody’s miserable, when the rain plummets down
as if God were trying to put out your cigarette, not realizing that you’d just come to my house
and lie on the nicotine-stained couch cushions where we’d smoke and fuck and cry.
I didn’t say anything, wouldn’t try to make it better, because I myself had no life preserver to offer,
so I sat quietly and lit a match for you, waited for the tears to stop. I love you enough to know
that you don’t come wrapped up in pretty paper, fitted with a bow and people have been tying
cinder blocks to your ankles since the day you were born but you are real, all your sunken, miserable
preparations for hell, all the caffeinated fucking and smoke-filled apartments just prove
to me that the mess on my couch can make my heart race like any cup of coffee would,
and none of that half-caf, decaf bullshit.