i didn’t always like my coffee black

i cradle my cup of black coffee in the morning, wrapped up in my cocoon, and gaze out my bedroom window while i watch life pass me by on west alameda.

i didn’t always like my coffee black.

my friend claire drank coffee as dark as an ill lit country road on chilly, gloomy, mornings at summer camp.

i always aspired to be like that; drinking the bitter liquid that gives life in the early hours of the day.

throughout the years i learned to be brave; i started to face my fears.

i would speak out for what i believed in and say what was on my mind.

my identity became wrapped up in my thoughts and i made my heart into a patch that i wore on the sleeve of my favorite denim jacket.

everyday i would ask for less cream and less sugar in my coffee.

i taught myself to have a positive outlook on life and etched my own desires into existence.

soon, i began to ask for “a medium drip please, no room for cream.”

as i reflect on my past through metaphors of a cup of coffee, i realize how silly it is.

growing up, reaching out, and becoming a stronger woman can all fit into an 8 ounce glass of caffeine.

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