The Last Spoon of Coffee
Coffee is strange with me.
It tightens my chest
and then
loosens it.
It knocks on my ribs
like anxiety asking to be let in,
yet somehow
itās the only thing that stays
when the room gets too loud.
People donāt understand that paradox~
how something can be the spark
and the extinguisher
at the same time.
Sometimes it makes my hands shake,
my thoughts run marathons,
my heart forget its rhythm.
Sometimes
it feels like a hand on my back saying,
youāre okay, keep going.
Lately, I donāt even wait
for the anxiety anymore.
I drink it without a reason.
Cup after cup.
Replacing water
with something darker.
I know.
I know itās not healthy.
I know being busy is my favourite excuse.
Thereās always an event,
a deadline,
a reason to stay awake
longer than I should.
Iāve been breathing deeply for months,
whispering,
First Jan. Iāll stop. I promise.
But January came
with work in its hands
and I reached for caffeine
like muscle memory.
Now thereās that little bottle.
Just one tablespoon left.
The ālastā one.
I tell myself
after this,
three months detox.
Four, maybe.
But the last cup sits in my stomach
before Iāve even made it
heavy,
guilty,
inevitable.
Iāve told everyone I wonāt have it.
Maybe outside, occasionally.
But not at home.
Because home means easy.
And easy means I wonāt stop.
It isnāt just a drink.
Itās a ritual.
A sedation.
A companion that never asks questions.
When no one tries to calm me
not their job, I know
Yet coffee does.
And it wasnāt its job either.
It was mine.
Maybe Iām already numb.
Maybe I donāt need something to numb me.
Maybe thatās why I hesitate
because if I let go of it,
Iāll have to feel
everything
without a filter.
Or maybe
Iām overthinking.
Maybe itās just a spoon of powder
in a small brown bottle
waiting on a shelf.
But why does it feel
like a goodbye
Iām not ready to say?











