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
itâs the only thing that stays
when the room gets too loud.
People donât 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,
youâre okay, keep going.
Lately, I donât even wait
for the anxiety anymore.
I drink it without a reason.
Cup after cup.
Replacing water
with something darker.
I know.
I know itâs not healthy.
I know being busy is my favourite excuse.
Thereâs always an event,
a deadline,
a reason to stay awake
longer than I should.
Iâve been breathing deeply for months,
whispering,
First Jan. Iâll stop. I promise.
But January came
with work in its hands
and I reached for caffeine
like muscle memory.
Now thereâs that little bottle.
Just one tablespoon left.
The âlastâ one.
I tell myself
after this,
three months detox.
Four, maybe.
But the last cup sits in my stomach
before Iâve even made it
heavy,
guilty,
inevitable.
Iâve told everyone I wonât have it.
Maybe outside, occasionally.
But not at home.
Because home means easy.
And easy means I wonât stop.
It isnât just a drink.
Itâs 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 wasnât its job either.
It was mine.
Maybe Iâm already numb.
Maybe I donât need something to numb me.
Maybe thatâs why I hesitate
because if I let go of it,
Iâll have to feel
everything
without a filter.
Or maybe
Iâm overthinking.
Maybe itâs just a spoon of powder
in a small brown bottle
waiting on a shelf.
But why does it feel
like a goodbye
Iâm not ready to say?
















