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Demon Roast
She does not host. She haunts.
You bought her dark roast because the label promised depth.
She was a bean once. They named her on the bag — before the roaster opened the pit and she learned to laugh.
She does not host. She haunts.
Percolate at your own risk. She scorches tongues for sport, leaves your pulse arguing with the dark, your eyelids stripped of treaty.
Every cup: a small exorcism that fails. The kitchen smells like penance. You still pour another.
I won’t tell you to send her back to Hell. You know where the bin is. You haven’t moved.
Neither has she.
What happens next is yours — sleep, or this bitter sacrament, again, again.
JV · Dark Heart Labs