Creeping in My Soul

The warning label says to open a window. Sometimes I do, others, I couldn't give two shits about it. Using it is the closest I ever come to being high, which is every afternoon with the cleaning of my kitchen counters and bathroom tile grouts. So as I run my rough fingers over the childproof cap of this half-gallon jug of Clorox, I'm secretly thrilled at the idea of erasing stains, every incriminating mark that haunts me and festers my dreams.

But then again, my nose burns at the very thought of it. I'll leave it open this time.

The camping section of this busy mart is quiet this time of day, or any time of day, now that I think about it, and it seems odd that someone like me lugging a bag of sponges and a jug of bleach would be browsing sharpening stones and hunting knives.

What would they know?

Another shopper steps into the aisle. I stare at him for a long moment from the corner of my eye; his cart, how he wipes his nose and taps away at the keys of his phone. This is what I get for coming to the campus mart. This faceless person glances up, but I'm already turning the corner into the next aisle.

Axes and flints.

I like these: hatchets.
It's in my price range.

But another time. There's no use in attracting too much attention.