the grocery store.

let's go shopping

and the grocery store is never just the grocery store.

i take a basket even when i know i will buy more than i can carry, because some part of me always overestimates strength and underestimates weight. the doors open without asking anything of me, and inside everything is painfully intact.

i'm staring at cereal boxes trying to find one that'll stain my heart again. something sugared enough to soften whatever in me has become difficult to reach. the mascots grin with unbearable certainty, as if joy were still simple enough to be poured into a bowl.

i'm pacing the snack aisle looking for an addiction, a sweet treat. some small thing to occupy the mouth so the mind loosens its grip. every packet promises satisfaction in bright colours, and i keep believing packaging has learned how to imitate salvation.

i'm circling the donuts like they'll make my life beautiful. they sit there under warm light, delicate and golden, as though tenderness can be baekd fresh each morning and sold before noon. i imagine buying one and becoming briefly the kind of person whose sadness arrives elegantly, in silence, beside coffee and clean windows.

i'm looking at birthday cards wondering who i have left to congratulate. whose name still belongs naturally in my handwriting. whose milestones i still approach without hesitation, without first measuring what distance has done to affection.

i’m clutching my sleeves in the produce section, as if this particular carrot will cleanse away years of inner turmoil. as if choosing something green is evidence of discipline, of hope, of a future self still worth feeding.

i inspect fruit for bruises with more care than i have ever inspected my own damage.

i’m cradling eggs like precious cargo, lowering them carefully into the basket, protecting fragility with both hands. have i ever been held this gently, with this much quiet precaution? has anyone ever noticed how little pressure it takes before something delicate becomes impossible to restore?

the freezer doors hold my reflection hostage. i catch sight of myself between frozen vegetables and ready meals, pale under artificial light, looking like someone half-finished. someone assembled enough to appear functional, not enough to feel convincing.

near me, a child asks for sweets with the confidence of someone who still believes desire is allowed to speak plainly. somewhere behind aisle seven, someone laughs and for a second it sounds foreign, like hearing a language i used to know.

i hover between the self-checkout and the cashier line longer than necessary, wondering if it'd be nice to go through something with someone else for once. if being asked how my day is might briefly resemble being seen. if handing things over, one by one, and having someone acknowledge them aloud might feel like confession.

the cashier asks if i want a receipt.

and i almost say yes, bbecause there are days i want proof i was here at all, that i made it through another day, that i selected what was needed, paid what it cost, and left with something to carry home.

outside, the bags bite into my fingers all the way back until they redden.

it feels right that even necessity should leave marks.