The Coffee Mug

Every night I sleep.

Not good sleep, mind you.

Tumultuous sleep. Haunting sleep.

Ceaselessly reliving each morning in my mind.

Until the sun rises.

You lift my head to the dim light of your world.

Lifted from the cupboard

You set me to rest on the counter

As you groan your distaste of the morning.

Your breath pours over me, rotted,

The smell overpowered by the reek of my burden

Percolating in its enormous bulb.

I squeeze my senses tight, readying myself.

I know it's coming. Every morning it comes.

You need it, to wash away your groans.

And as you need it, so too do you need me.

But you think nothing of me…

…Only of the black, molten silk.

My skin has grown stained over the years.

Hard. Broken, and pieced together.

Rings circling my insides, memories

That you try to wash away, but cannot.

Braced, you pour the liquid hell into my bowels

It burns me, but I do not char.

Not anymore.

The lava scalds, stings,

The white crystals and cream do nothing

The metal scrapes my insides,

A red-hot typhoon in my guts.

You place me to your lips,

But you do not want me.

You kiss my head,

Only to feed upon me.

You drain me slowly, tauntingly,

Relieving my burden inch by inch

Until you no longer need me.

I told you, didn’t I? You don’t want me.

You want my burden, and I must carry it.

You toss me in the empty metallic canyon.

You tear at me, scrub at me, try to wipe away

Your abuse of me.

Torn, stung, skin hard and tingling,

You place me back on my head in the dark place.

I wait, sleep,

Bad sleep.

With only thoughts of your hand,

Grabbing for me once more.