I Do Not Carry a Cart

I don’t like to take up space,
even if that means waiting in line
at a grocery store.

I am a meandering silhouette,
webbing in and out of aisles.

I pinch raspberries to feel alive,
the red juice staining my fingertips,
reminding me I too am squished
inside the sardine can of civilization.

Watching everyone steer
their monotone shopping carts,
there’s a lot you can tell about someone
based on what they consume.

I do not carry a cart
to be noticed.
Instead I carry bags
on each shoulder.

Wanting more
only makes things heavier,
both in the bag
and, seemingly, in my life.

What I consume,
what I dare to dream to consume,
stays hidden
behind the wall
of my tote bag I got
from a time in my life
when I felt more like myself.

But it’s just a grocery store.
I know it’s me,
afraid of being perceived,
as if everyone is looking at me,
pointing out everything
that is, was,
or will be wrong with me.

Anxiety is a self-centered poison,
inflating my existence
beyond its true size.

After all, I am just a woman
pressing on avocados
to find the ripest ones,
choosing soy milk
because of something she read online,
walking past Reese’s peanut butter cups,
debating whether today
will be the day
she finally gives in.

Waiting on line at the grocery store feels like purgatory,
until it’s time
to gather my things quickly,
like a feral creature,
and retreat back to my den.

Perhaps one day
I will take a cart
and place a single Reese’s pack inside it.
​
Maybe then
I’ll give people
something to look at.