**Self-Checkout Epiphany**
The scanner beeps like a bird with performance anxiety,
each barcode a hymn in a faithless temple of squash.
Behind me, a teen swipes nicotine gum, eyes
slick with algorithms and Sleep Token lyrics.
Nothing here breathes except the credit card terminal,
which stutters like a prophet mid-seizure.
I pretend not to know the bagger’s eyes—we dated
once or twice in a different platform’s comment section.
Outside, clouds hover like pending transactions,
and a child tastes pixels from a vending machine’s glow.
Inside me, a crowd mumbles—queue-shaped remorse
wrapping itself around a hunger I mistook for nostalgia.
My face unlocks my phone, unlocks an app,
unlocks a coupon for therapy I never click.
The receipt curls upward, papery and white
as a very quiet scream. Folding it,
I recognize the name on the loyalty card.
It’s not mine, never was.
**They’ve been watching someone else dream through my eyes.**
—The Clergyman