Supermarket Bones Poem by Madison Massarello

The feet caress the silenced floors.
The eyes delightfully shriek at the intoxicating images that carve divergent atoms.
The fingers dance across the tantalizing haze of consumerism.
We're in the supermarket.

How much can we take until it's considered rape?

We are drowning in a pool of tortillas.
Our senses are toiled away from the capability to mindlessly self-inflict.
We are penetrated by blissful locomotives.

Be practical, they say.
That's a mans job! , they say.
I am deaf.
I foolishly push the masculine carts.
I taste the hysterical white privilege as it burns down my throat into a stream of heavenly ignorance.