Which One Did I Ever Like

The cereal aisle stopped me mid-stride.

Too many boxes, same shapes, different promises—

honey, bran, fruit that's been dried into lies,

and I'm standing there

trying to remember which version of myself

actually wanted this.

The fluorescent hum is pressing down.

Everything's too bright and too close.

A mother with a cart full of toddlers passes.

She doesn't even slow down.

She knows what she's buying.

I reach for the one with the cartoon character—

same one I've probably bought a hundred times—

and I can't believe I've done that a hundred times

without ever deciding.

Without ever thinking.

I just grabbed and moved on,

grabbed and moved on,

grabbed and moved on,

and now the lights are making everything shimmer,

the boxes are all the same,

the choices are bleeding into one another,

and I can't remember if I like this

or if I've just been buying it

because my hand knows the motion,

because muscle memory looks like preference

when you're not paying attention.

The hum gets louder.

Or maybe I'm just listening now.

I put the box back.

I put the box back.

I leave without anything.