Coffee for dinner.

I'd bleed it from my veins if you cut me, probably, sweat it from my pores,
Every dark, bitter drop that flowed from my skin would engulf me.
I crave it psychologically as strongly as a crack addict craves cocaine physically.
Perhaps I'm high, too.

High on life.
Not in the way most people use that phrase. People who say that are usually partiers, extroverts, or people who soak in other people like sponges. People who thrive off of bustling days and colorful lights and social interactions and sunny days.
Non, pas moi.
I'm no extrovert.

I'm high on life in all it's hidden, overlooked splendor,
as bitter and dark as the drink that fuels my body every morning, every night.
On the art in shadows, on listening to French music at midnight, on being able to laugh at spiteful hatred, on the feeling of being able to feel accomplished even though every bone in my body is threatening to collapse from not sleeping for days. On the smell of the worn pages of a book.
On the feeling of silent, quiet growth.

On feeling like I am holding something others can't see, but not knowing what it is at all.

And on drinking coffee alone at midday, feeling like it's completely okay that I don't.