Black Coffee

 by Mia Shelton 

I told my mother about you.

The first time I told her, the words coming out of my mouth were sugary sweet and saccharine.

The last time, my eyes were heavy and full, ready to pour like a cloud before a thunderstorm. 

You placed me on the highest cliff only to push me off the edge,

to watch my skull crack open and leak thick, warm blackberry juice on the cold ground.  

My mother's voice was soft; coffee brewing and dry heat whirring in the background. 

"Only a bad partner blames his woman," she quipped.

She poured herself a cup of pure black coffee, took a sip, and sighed with a knowing smile,

"and only bad coffee needs to be dowsed with cream and sugar."