i think i've always pretended to love coffee
just something warm to wake-up to
bitter notes barely disguised by sucralose
i could always convince myself
that the artificially sickly sweet
the laughing, kissing, dancing while we're strangers
was less disappointing
than sugar, or honey, or conversations that dared
to ask who we really were
or are, or could be,
or love that cared;
it just hurts more to waste your time with something precious.
the loss more hollow and
memories etched deeper
when you get attached to someone.
and i know too well how it feels to get my hopes up.
i have always heard desperation is an acquired taste
just something that sneaks up on you
bitter notes becoming stale or muted
i always convince myself the caffeine kick
is worth the crash.
then i remember even faked feelings stir up fatigue
and sometimes they're not fake.
but i drown my bitterness in sucralose
and ask why i need to care
if you don't care and what's
even the point of love
when we don't care.
sometimes i think i'd rather not know what love feels like
if somehow that would save me
the heartache of heartbreak,
but even bitter coffee burns sometimes.
and i still get my hopes up, even when i know better.
i realize now i've wasted too much time on lukewarm love
just because i'm always so terrified
of getting burned, so i don't take risks,
and i wait too long, and by the time
either of us cares it is always too late.
and lately i've been dumping coffee in favor of chamomile
and loving people
who might love me back
or might care to know
who i am, and who we are,
or could be,
and that's terrifying
because now you have the option of rejecting me for who i am.
there's no hiding behind apathy
or artificial sweeteners,
but i'm used to heartbreak.
and this time i think i'm willing to get my hopes up.