The Ink Chapel

What is the cure
for all this madness?
I can’t even cross the street
without imagining my obituary
in a headline that spells my name wrong.

A child screams
because the iPad died.
His mom scrolls TikTok
while holding up the drive-thru line.
The chicken nuggets are cold.
The world is ending.

Becky is at the counter again–
petitioning for paper straws
in a plastic cup.
She clutches a reusable tote
filled with rage
and pre-packaged cheese sticks.
The cashier is nineteen
and already broken.

Gary tailgates me
through a school zone.
He wants blood or speed,
whichever comes first.
This is a Honda Civic, Gary.
Not a missile.

I’m not in a rush
to die gloriously
in a Walmart parking lot
because someone mistook my silence
for surrender.

A man on the news says
the sky is falling
but first—this message from our sponsor.
Try our new vitamin water.
It cures nothing,
but it comes in three flavors
and a bottle shaped like hope.

I try to breathe
but even that feels political.
Carbon dioxide is a weapon now.
So is kindness.
So is eye contact.

We’re all just
marching in sync
to the beat of notifications,
dodging each other in aisles,
and calling it community.

© The Ink Chapel | Don’t steal my trauma. Thanks.