a witch, a lunatic, and a poet walk into a bar—no, a pharmacy. and i am not the poet. /// tapping our feet together in the lunch-rush line. /// a refrigerator murmur meant only for my frequency. i imagine it full: plastic rings to curb my womb, cornflower shots to blunt my craving. /// oh, i must remember to get cat food while i am out. /// food. feast. a hundred-dollar uber eats order. people like me keep economies afloat. /// black-buttoned blouse, blank tan face and sleepy stare. “how can i help you?” /// perhaps it is that time of year where i watch titanic (again)—but no one will watch it with me. i like the part when the ship is sinking because it makes me cry. i only cry in sad movies or when i remember, as i try to fall asleep, that one day my cats will die. /// the man behind me shakes with a fever, like bubbling kettle water awaiting the peppermint that will make it into tea. we are all sick with, sick of, something. /// over dinner last night, a friend (yes, i do have friends, you know) and i pondered free will. but i have only known those who are slaves to their natures. /// sorry, what did you say? i was sinking into the spiral void. /// “your prescription expired a week ago.” /// rats.