Fuck grocery store etiquette.
Tears for Fears tells me to shout, so I let it all out
in front of the dairy case while inspecting my perfection—
mourning after reflection—in the fingerprinted glass.
My cheeks are hollow
but my gut is bloated
from too much diet soda (I’m watching my figure) and vodka.
In front of the dairy case, blocking access to the skim milk,
I let it all out,
and I like the way
my pretty mouth contorts
into a beastly maw
when I cry.
© Kindra M. Austin