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shelf doll.useless. worthless. untouched in years.
Resigned to a shelf life out of sight and out of mind.
Hidden among those nasty habits, an unintentional voyeur of the life you lead--because I am nothing but a voyeur, a set of peering eyes into a secret life.
I love among tobacco, condoms, and mountains of weed.
And though I see your hate of it all, your struggle to stop and your struggle to put it behind you, I hate you more for it. You place your secrets in the shelf's back corner--with me--to hide them from the world and from yourself.
Is that how you saw me? Something to be ashamed of?
Well that's just fine, because sins always come to the surface. You can't hide what you do' you can only beg for forgiveness. You could never control yourself, could you? Constantly consumed, leaving me as the one to watch you inflict scars upon yourself. Yes, that's right--all you can do now is beg for forgiveness. All I have to do is fall, and your habits will be clear to see--personal revenge in its sweete
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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