I Bleed Coffee

I bleed coffee

from countless sleepless nights

and I can't tell

if the bitter taste in my mouth

is from my drink of choice

or memories of his tongue.

Maybe it's the aftertaste

of my refusal, unheeded.

The taste of failure,

never enough.

 

I bleed coffee

from countless sleepless nights

to keep my mind racing.

Maybe all of the thoughts in my head

will drown out the silence

that possessed me

when his hands began to wander

ignoring the sign that said

Private Property: No Trespassing.

 

I bleed coffee

from countless sleepless nights

because maybe then I can pretend

the constant tremor in my hands

is from the caffeine running

through my veins

instead of the panic

humming beneath my skin

every time a man's eyes linger too long,

every time a man opens his mouth

to say something I don't want to hear.

 

I bleed coffee

from countless sleepless nights

because I don't want 

his face, his hands, his tongue

to plague my dreams.

He already haunts my silences.

I will not invite him in.

I did not invite him in.

 

I bleed coffee

from countless sleepless nights.

This is my choice, my sacrifice.

Why does it still feel like

he is in control?

This poem is about: 
Me

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