Groceries

The bags cut into my fingers,  

handles biting like tiny, persistent teeth.  

Plastic thin as whispers,  

weight dense as apologies unspoken.  

One step creaks beneath my foot,  

the staircase groans louder than I do.  

A balancing act of overconfidence and regret,  

each bag swinging, a pendulum of poor choices.  

Sweat beads bloom on my forehead,  

rolling down like the drips on milk cartons.  

I wonder how many steps  

until my arms stop shaking.  

The tomatoes wobble in their cocoon,  

a silent prayer for their survival  

as I hoist the bags higher,  

my chest tight with stubbornness.  

Halfway there, legs burning like old matches,  

I laugh because it’s ridiculous,  

this war I’m fighting in the stairwell,  

and I’m losing.  

Finally, the third flight ascends victorious,  

and I make it—not gracefully,  

but like a cracked, triumphant bell,  

still ringing.