a warm knuckle plunge
between a felty explosion
of movie theatre butter

you know there is something off
but it's like the song of a siren on your tongue

it's a gateway you walk into
that you never return from

it's your own discomforts
traded
for pleasure

the bag is loud
it's the megaphone
that you were denied entry with

you had to turn around
when you didn't have to
you only had to leave
when you didn't want to

you turned your world upside
only to watch every kernel
silently hit the floor

no one noticed
yet you feel obligated not to leave the mess
because you know someone else
would have to go through this

hunched, your chest over your own knees
your loss of breath coming up
and the pain in your neck from getting back up too quickly
you don't want that on someone else

you tell yourself they are used to cleaning up accidents
but who cleans up there's?
what if they're having a hars day too?

tell my brain to stop fucking up