Fake Coffee

Today is not made for caffeine.

My heart hurts. I feel it always, at all times — its slow, enduring, physical pain — its weight, its heft, its relentless reluctance to beat, to carry on. The fist of it clutches my chest and refuses to let go — burly, tattooed, with bad breath and a mustache. It blows smoke in my face, it pins me to the wall like a butterfly that remains, for this moment, alive.

I see no use in flying anymore, so just like that, I stop beating my wings. They hang beside me, empty balloons.

Each day my big adventure is making coffee. Not drinking coffee, just making it. I lug my heart from the bed to the kitchen and back again, maybe two times, maybe three. I forego caffeine because it accentuates the pain — it shoves it from behind the curtain, onto the stage. It shines a spotlight and in this limp, yellow glare, I see my own ghost.

I am by myself; I am alone. I’ve grown pale now, almost translucent. My shoulders slump, my chin folds. I regard the dusty floor.

No audience fills the seats. Everyone went home, shaking their heads, perplexed. In the silence, I hear the swollen thud of my heart, flopping about like a fish on a plank.

Always I forget my fake coffee. Halfway through, I’ve lost interest. I’ve grown bored. Instead I crawl under the covers. I curl to one side. I close my eyes. I breathe. I pray. I seem to believe that if I focus very hard, if I sweep up all the shards of my intent, I can fathom a way to break free.

Lately I pick a spot on the wall — an afternoon shadow, say. I stare and feel my heart. I feel my forlorn heart; I accept its rage, I let it loop and falter. I feel my heart for all I’m worth, and once in a while, I cry.

Crying also causes physical pain — loud, sharp, foreign. Noise! Human noise! As soon as I start, I stop. I despise feeling sorry for myself. I flinch and fall back to sleep.

These words sound just like tears. I hate them, hot and wet as they cling to the curves of my cheeks. I hate them and want to stab each one.

This is my whole life for eight years.