I hate the taste of black coffee.

It’s bitter.

I wish I could go on to describe just how disgusting it is but I can’t

It’s. Just. Bitter.

My usual drink is a cup of coffee, no sugar, no cream.

I hate the stuff but it fuels me.

It's gasoline to mankind’s automobile.

I’m not talking about the caffeine in it.

Nobody likes black coffee, but we drink it all the same.

Why? Because we’re liars.

We’re pretenders caught up in our own webs.

Will we ever spin again?

“Step into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly.

Gladly, for another cup of that horrible, bitter coffee.

Black coffee is a cup of vanity.

It’s a cup of faux heroism encased in a roguish mug.

I drink it all the same.

Sometimes my compulsion to lie overcomes me.

I’m trapped doing things for the sake of others’ expectations.

I wish I could put this cup down, but what would the others think?

Would their thoughts turn negative?

With my unusual habit gone, would they still think of me the same?

Or would I just become… usual?

Would I fade into obscurity, never to be remembered?

Would I sacrifice my reputation for my sanity?

Would they even have thought anything of it in the first place?

Was I even thought of to begin with?

Have I already faded?

Into obscurity?

I don’t know anymore.

I’ll keep drinking it.

I can’t stop.

What else is there to drink?