As I sat in the blind spot of the moon, in a dark room with nothing but the chair in which I had placed myself and the desk in front of me, which too seemed to glower at me. There was a glass.
My finger ran along the smoothed circular edge hoping that it would run into a chip or crack that would cause my finger to beat in and slice.
I could picture throwing the crystal and yelling at it profoundly while it begged in its crushed pile of dust.
And I would curse to myself about the heart beating through my finger.
There was a glass and I wished it to give me a reason to move.
YOU ARE READING
Black Coffee
PoetryA series of small things that cause my brain to erupt in what looks like words. Poetry, prose, and small excerpts. ***there are some explicit/triggering chapters*** ***Mostly dark material*** ♤ "It flows through my veins. Kind of like a plant that...
