Poor Nineteen

I did it because I could not sleep,
had not slept for several nights.

The air was cold as plate glass;
breathing, like death by garrote.
Clouds hissed and spat oblivion.

He lingered a few feet down the aisle
by the hair products. I did it because I was laid off
from my dead-end job.

I promised myself that I would only do it this once.
In a world where I had nothing, felt smothered.
The bleat of the register kept time to the whine of Muzak.
A clerk rang up my purchase: a can of mousse.
In my gut, a tingled warning; he materialized
a few feet from the door, sidled up to me, pressed
his hand on my arm:
“I believe you put something in your purse. Nytol.”

I did it because I was choking.