The Grocery List I Keep Rewriting

My life keeps ending up

on a crumpled grocery list

wedged in my back pocket.

Milk, eggs, bread,

spinach if I feel like someone

who makes good choices.

Right under “garlic.”

I write

sleep more,

But then I scratch it out

because you can’t weigh that

in the produce section.

Sometimes I sneak hope

between “dish soap” and “foil,”

testing how it feels to shop

for a person who isn’t always tired.

Don’t forget oat milk,

The brand with the blue cap

You like in your coffee

when you’re here—

I still buy it,

Then pretend I don’t notice

When it goes bad untouched.

I have a separate list on my phone

for the things you can’t scan:

call Dad back,

Stop saying yes when your body says no,

Ask the doctor about the way

Your chest turns into a drum

over nothing.

That list never makes it

to the checkout.

I scroll it while I stand in line

behind someone whose cart

Looks like a balanced childhood—

cereal with cartoon faces,

oranges,

a cake mix just because.

My cart is quiet.

Mostly beige.

The color of “fine.”

Once I wrote “joy.”

just to see it on paper.

I circled it,

underlined it,

Then left the note on the counter

When I went out the door

and came home with

only paper towels.

I keep thinking one day

I’ll walk into the store

with a list that isn’t a confession,

just things I plan to eat

In a week where I am not

negotiating with the mirror.

Until then,

I keep rewriting:

apples, rice, detergent,

a version of myself

Who remembers to buy

the things

that keep her alive,

and not just the things

that keep her going.