You don’t know it till you’re right in front of it. You’re walking around craving something different, in need of a refreshing kick to the palate. You’re so parched for something fulfilling that you don’t realize the labeling on what you’re hugging on reads “SCHMUCK: DO NOT SMOOCH”. Before you know it you are off to the check out counter to spend money on something you don’t even realize you have voluntarily picked for yourself. But you are paying for it before you get to regret buying it.
Canned Worms- do not smooch. Why is it that I keep misreading the labeling on the outside, the extra wording that warn that overdosage may cause irreparable tearing to the heart? Once upon a time I knew how to shop critically, slowly and with care. I had time, I had a choice, I had dreams that promised a better thrill than what a silly boy could threaten to be capable of doing for me. “Do Not Smooch”; they may as well have spelled that out in Russian to get through to me.
Seven steps forward, onward and forth, to the cashier I trot, straddling one elaborately labelled can of worms. I am sadly too certain I made a wise, intuitive choice this time around. Seven steps behind me, exhibited in plain sight among perfectly fine cans of other possibilities, is the truth I reject each time I pick worms over possible fulfillment. But I believe in this can of worms. I have faith that it’s content could morph into a multitude of butterflies, albeit a misguided faith. I must have it, I deserve to be a part of it, a part of something that becomes beautiful and mesmerizing just because I loved it so.
You don’t know it till you’re right in front of it. It’s placed across from you on the kitchen table at home, staring right back into your glum mugg. You could take it back to isle 14 and redeem yourself from being deemed unlearned, foolish and naive. But it has you bound in some spell and you can’t seem to break the stare. You begin to consider several ways out, one of which might include a lace bra.