Poetry, August 2019

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Sometimes I go without coffee until late in the day.
By then, it’s useless, and I want to be dead.
Sometimes I actually want to be dead.
I’ll pile the dishes in the sink and bury myself in the couch.
That’s my grave for a while.
Sometimes it’s so bad I can’t feel my own arms.
They stop belonging to me.

Other times, I have my coffee, and everything is just fine.