Oct. 6th, 2016

  • 7:11 PM
pridefall: (Only Data Streams | Tron)
when i was five years old,
my sister pulled a prank on me
that went a such:
"you need to try this, Ian
it's a new thing of coke
and thought i shouldn't give it to you
i don't think a little bit will be enough
to get anyone in trouble,"
but it wasn't coke, not even close
it was bottom of the pot, black charred
barrel sludge--the kind of coffee filtered by:
sewer grates and knives,
drunk by old, hard men with calloused hands
and tired, vacant eyes;
a swift kick in the teeth, in other words
and from then on, i've always hated the taste
of early morning anything
like breakfast and the smell of coffee beans
somehow always translates to:
betrayal far too young, too fast,
and all too strange for me to understand
everyone looks at me weird when i say i don't like coffee
and i've written poems about it before--
explained how the skin i rock is so stained by:
cocoa butter metaphors and almond chocolate similes, and
how my never quite finding caramel or mahogany adequate ways
to describe myself tastes the same way coffee and
hating your own culture for twenty years burns--
maybe i'm a bit bitter, i guess?
but breakfast has never been my thing, growing up
and i've stopped trying to defend it, grown up;
it's just who i am:
mornings mean less to me than everyone else,
i think
because i never had breakfast as a kid,

(and this is where the poem just dies)


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