Shelf Life

The overhead hum is a headache I can't shake.

I look up at the security screen,

watching my own grainy ghost shift a scarf

to hide what the mirror just revealed.

There it is on my collarbone, a dull gold smudge,

a thumbprint bruise that hasn't found the sense to fade.

It stays while the memory of the weight

slips into the static of the store.

The conveyor belt jerks and the eggs wobble

in their open cardboard nest, half-empty and fragile.

I pay for things I don't really want to eat,

waiting for the skin to turn back to a lie.