labels don’t lie, but
they expect you to listen
smallprint sermons curled beneath
expiry dates and shelf dust.
the hermit runs fingers over
“best before” like it’s a dare
and the jar dares back—
containment never suited truth.
canned peaches declare judgment
in syruped certainty:
“you’ll fail. again.”
but the hermit has heard worse
from people who smile.
there’s intent tucked
deep inside plastic wrap—
layers folded like old
wounds waiting to be undone.
and so they shop
not for groceries but to rewrite
what everyone thought
they’d believe.
.