Cold Coffee

you keep drinking your black coffee even though it's long past cold and your college text books take pretty much everything you own and you kill yourself over thinking but that's what you're paying to do you take a walk but you hold your breath everyone's a sinner but you feel like you're more of a peddler than you meant to be but your professors don't give you feedback on those crappy paintings littering the walls of your dorm because they don't want to know what they'll find if they move you bargain that you'll "figure it all out later" but you're not so sure anymore and you keep reassuring your mother that her "frail heart is worrying too much" and that you're doing what you wanted to do even though you kind of wish she would make you come back home and send you to the corner of everything you've done right your fingers are calloused and shaky now but you pretend not to notice because you're afraid that if you identify the things that make you ugly so will everyone else and you ignore every bit of your mind because your coffee sits in your stomach but you know it won't stay down as soon as you go to paint