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My coffee has gone cold.
As I huddle under blankets,
into the warmth of a screen
presenting me the infinite corridor
of all of my old fears and
of new ones to come.
Daily anxiety ingested, I’m late again.
To sit in my chair.
Stare at my screen.
And make a better, richer life,
for men I’ll never meet.
I cry openly in meetings now,
but no one says a word.
Probably because they’re crying too,
I don’t know, I’m not paying attention.
My life is adorned
with cups of cold coffee.
Sprinkled around me.
Colourful little decorations
to remind me that
I cannot find warmth,
even in that which sustains me.
The phone vibrates.
Another girl has sent me ‘The Essay’.
A two thousand word think piece on:
How things are too hard.
Why she’s worthless.
That she wants to die.
I’m inclined to agree. I do too.
Yet instead I reply, trite platitudes,
about community and finding joy,
and how we have to live.
For ourselves or in spite,
it doesn’t really matter,
if I believe it and when I’m finished –
my coffee has gone cold.