A Millenial’s Overweight Bag
The little nook in society I am supposed to cram my dreams in does not allow for easy folding or expandable zippers.
The lethargic stewardess’ voice informing passengers it is time to board is like my dirty laundry piling into a wave that grasps hands with other waves to drown me.
The marble walls tiptoe toward my hairline as I throw colors like leaves to fly with birds, but they fall to become the brown mush that cradles your leftover spearmint.
My dreams have become obese munching on half-lies. Yesterday’s cast list cradles someone’s used ketchup packet.
I have an overweight bag and each syllable of ‘final boarding call’ is the slow clipping of scissors to make me fit.