The Coffee I Didn't Want

By Darshana Suresh

I watch you take the empty seat next to a stranger.

He’s stealing glances at your flowing red hair,

But you don’t notice…

You are undeterred by the attention you carry,

Uncaring of your outfit being flashy

Nor worrying if your voice sounds ghastly;

You’re singing

As if you’re home in your pyjamas on a lazy Sunday,

You sway to your beats like a sunflower in gentle breeze,

Your coffee mug clings to your fingers with purpose,

Your coffee smells of confidence.

And I?

I am running an algorithm in my mind,

Looking for a seat least visible, least easy to find.

I settle in a corner holding the coffee I didn’t want,

The coffee, I didn’t want.

I wanted to hide the nervous sweat in my palms,

I wanted to sip my way through awkward silences,

I wanted my coffee mug to avoid conversations,

My coffee smells of insecurities.

When someone takes the empty seat next to mine,

I swiftly find refuge in my coffee mug,

The heat from the ceramic burning my palms

As we exchange our courtesy smiles.

He does not have coffee in his hands.

His hands seem to belong to his body

Unlike mine that lay limp without the coffee I didn’t want.

He wears his skin with ease

Like a perfectly tailored tuxedo complementing his body,

And I?

I am made of the loose skin hanging from my cheeks 

And my arms and my bare shins,

As if they wish to peel away from my bones 

And have nothing to do with this body of sins.

I’m waiting with my flabs of fat, 

For him to look away and let me stay hidden in peace,

But he chose to say “Hi”.

“Hi”, you say.

I shake awake my dormant vocal cords to respond to your courtesy,

Because courtesy, that’s all that it was.

“Hi” I say, almost in a whisper

As if too much of my voice would seem too eager,

What if you found me boring and shallow?

What if you got to know that I can’t even catch a ball right?

What if you pitied me for everything I am not?

My fingers,

They part from the warmth of my coffee mug.

My eyes hesitantly raise to meet yours,

I’m feeling exposed.

I feel the words cramped in my throat

Fighting its way through to the open,

Broken and crumpled and weak,

I speak.

I make a fool of myself.

But you’re smiling.

As if you cannot hear the stutter in my voice 

Or see the diffidence in my eyes,

I’m feeling free, not ashamed.

I’m feeling seen

As I try to make peace with the mess that I am,

To grow slowly strong,

To grow slowly into myself,

One blunder at a time.

I’m feeling proud,

To have learned that the only way around is through,

And you’ve got to be brave enough to be you.

So I chose to gather together my loose skins and hug them real close,

I chose to hold hands with my darkness while searching for the doors,

I chose to own my narrative,

And I chose to let go of the coffee I didn’t want.

By Darshana Suresh