The Champagne Soapbox

I heard someone chew in the dark.

At the movies – the one with the food –

just me, them, someone else,

all of us lit by a horror film.

Their chewing pressed on one edge of me,

like something might happen

if they didn’t stop.

I wished I could unhear them.

I wondered what I sound like

when my spit surrounds the elements,

consuming in full.

I imagined the slop they dropped,

melting onto their shirt in the dark,

their fork interrupting

the quiet spaces between dialogue.

Some part of me thought

their mechanisms were communicating

that they didn’t care for mine.

Maybe I care too much –

for mine, for theirs,

for everything that stays inside

the hand-drawn lines.

Between open space of natural fullness.

I bought salad dressing.

Wanted to make it myself

but couldn’t afford

the anchovies or the effort

the smashing of tinned fish into raw.

Twisted the cap and it’s expired.

Still poured it over random greens,

ate the shelf-rotted food,

drank from a glass with a straw,

numbed myself with noise,

listened to my own chewing

in the small.

Everything’s starting to feel gross.

She had a tattoo that my boyfriend has.

My smile made that baby dance.

I feel stuck between my friends –

I convince myself I’m moving through them,

with them. And I am. I’m just overthinking.

I heard someone chew.

We cycle through people and things,

digest what isn’t new

but still meant for us.

It feels like home to feel

like I belong to nothing

and everything.

To sway between overanalyzing my body

and noticing my face while I do it.

To watch the way they look at me

when I stir up some drama

that’s nothing new.

A worn-out plane seat.

Stuffing luggage with what my paycheck can do.

Maybe I’m not stuck.

Maybe I’m just through.

I keep forgetting my to-dos.

Write them down, stare at them

until my desires rot gray.

My wants turn to goals;

everything to do

Suburbia feels the same as it used to.

Park my dad’s bike, sway a fight

Air feels a bit different, 

each wind slap like my first bite. 

Friction leads to creation or whatever.

The increased normalcy.

Submission to chaos, debt, a functional fallacy.

The notes in my bedside drawer

lists of things for other people

I make lists for myself now too,

that’s something new.