Dark Roast…The Song About Loving Something That's Probably Not Good For You.

I have a confession.

I'm addicted to caffeine. Not in the cute, quirky way people joke about. I mean the 3 PM shakes, the irritability when I haven't had it, the way my whole day derails if I miss my morning cup. I know this about myself. I've tried to quit. I've tried chai lattes and matcha and herbal tea and all the healthy alternatives. They're fine. They're lovely. But they don't hit the same.

That's not actually what this song is about.

But it's a really good metaphor.

The One I Couldn't Quit

There was someone. There's always someone, isn't there?

The kind of person who wires into your system so completely that you can't tell where they end and you begin. The first thought when you wake up. The thing you crave at 3 PM when your energy dips and you need something—anything—to keep going. The thing that keeps you up at night, even when you know you need to sleep.

I used to tell myself it was love. Maybe it was. But love isn't supposed to feel like withdrawal.

I needed him the way I need coffee in the morning. Bold. Strong. Essential. I built my whole day around the possibility of him. The morning text. The afternoon call. The late-night conversation that would stretch into hours and leave me wired and exhausted and somehow still hungry for more.

And like coffee, sometimes it was bitter. Really bitter. I'd try to add sugar—sweet gestures, compromises, the parts of me I was willing to soften—but that bitter aftertaste never quite went away. It was hard to swallow. But I kept coming back for more.

Because that's what addiction is, isn't it? Knowing something isn't good for you and drinking it anyway.

The Alternatives

I tried to quit. More than once.

I dated other people. Nice people. Safe people. People who texted back right away and never left me guessing. They were like a chai latte—sweet, comforting, warm. Or a matcha green tea—full of spice, exotic, good for me.

But they weren't him. They didn't give me that jittery high. That electric feeling that everything was possible when he looked at me a certain way. They didn't have that specific chemistry, the one that made me feel like I was buzzing from the inside out.

And that's the cruelest trick, isn't it? The things that are bad for you often feel the most alive.

The Honest Truth About This Song

"Dark Roast" is a love song. But it's also a song about knowing better and doing it anyway.

It's about the 3 PM crash when you realize you've been running on fumes and the only thing that will fix it is the thing that's breaking you. It's about the bitterness you learn to tolerate because the rush is worth it. It's about the way addiction dresses itself up as devotion.

I wrote this song not because I'm proud of that part of myself, but because I know I'm not alone.

I know there's someone reading this right now who has a name in their phone they shouldn't open. A text thread they keep scrolling back through. A person who feels like a necessary part of their daily ritual, even though they know, somewhere deep down, that it's costing them more than they're getting.

I see you. I've been you.

What I've Learned

I'm not going to sit here and tell you I've quit. That would be a lie. I still drink coffee every morning. And some mornings, I still think about him.

But here's what I've learned: you can love something that isn't good for you and still choose yourself. You can acknowledge the craving without feeding it. You can look at the bitter aftertaste and say, I deserve something that doesn't leave me feeling this way.

The song ends with me coming back for more. That's the honest ending. But the story doesn't end there. The song after the song? That's the one where I start to ask: what if I don't need the thing that keeps me up at night? What if I'm enough on my own?

I'm still writing that one.

For the Ones Still Addicted

If this song found you in the middle of something you know isn't good for you—I'm not here to tell you to leave. I know it's not that simple. I know the rush is real. I know the thought of quitting feels like losing something essential.

But I want you to know: you're not weak for wanting it. You're not foolish for craving it. You're human. And humans are wired to chase the things that make us feel alive, even when they hurt.

Just… pay attention to the aftertaste.

If it's always bitter. If you're always the one adding sugar. If the crash comes every time and you're still going back—maybe just ask yourself: what would it feel like to be loved in a way that didn't require you to keep coming back for more?

I'm still figuring that out. But I think it might taste like something that keeps you steady, not something that keeps you up at night.