It’s getting harder to meet people.

Like, what do you even say anymore?

“Hi”? “Hey”? “How’s your trauma today?”

Everyone’s buffering, everyone’s tired.

Everyone’s pretending to be okay

while scrolling through someone else’s life.

Things that used to feel normal—

eye contact, a laugh that wasn’t typed—

now feel like finding a payphone that still works.

It’s weird.

It’s so weird being alive right now.

I think the script was written before we were born.

I’m just showing up late to my own scene,

trying to find my mark on the floor.

Sometimes I just stand a while,

Stuck, stuck, stuck in a grocery aisle.

Between the chips and denial,

Stuck, stuck, stuck in a grocery aisle.

Yeah, the grocery aisle.

The self-checkout machine keeps beeping at me,

like it knows something I don’t.

Like it’s trying to tell me

I’ve been scanning the wrong kind of happiness.

The kind with a barcode and no return policy.

And I swear—

for a second—

I smell the same detergent my mom used to buy,

and suddenly I’m six again,

kneeling on a linoleum floor,

wondering when the future’s gonna feel less fluorescent.

The speakers hum some soft nothing,

like a ghost that forgot the words.

And I’m older now—

but not old enough to stop missing what I never had.

Progress feels cold.

Like metal shelves and fake smiles.

I dream of checkout lines.

Of small talk and paper bags and someone saying,

“Have a nice day,”

and actually meaning it.

But here I am,

buying milk at midnight,

hoping the receipt doesn’t outlive me.

Sometimes I just wait a while,

Stuck, stuck, stuck in a grocery aisle.

Waiting for a wave and smile,

Stuck, stuck, stuck in a grocery aisle.

Yeah, the grocery aisle.