The Hold

I keep coming back to you. I know I shouldn't. You're dirty, sometimes. Most times, you're a dirty filthy thing. This hold you have on me isn't natural.
I'm an adult, old enough to know better… and yet, and yet…I come back to you. Do I expect a different result? Haven't I been burnt enough to develop some sort of pavlovian response at the sight of you?
There are no smiles, no hints of human kindness. I could get that somewhere else and I have. Are you surprised? Don't be. Your grip isn't iron clad, though at times it feels that way. There are weeks when I know only you can appease me.
I'll wait for you, like I would with no other. I put up with things that no one should…from you. And I've tried to quit, I have. But how is it you make the most sense to me? The way you make your money isn't clean, people suffer and yet I revel in your bounty.
I've just come back from another tryst. With you. I can still taste you in the back of my throat. And yes, I want to shower. I want to unsee the things I have seen. I know I won't and despite the cries of the young, the curses of the old and the lingering stench of disappointment that surrounds you, I will be back. When the milk runs out, I know you'll give it to me the cheapest. The name brands that I would whore myself out to buy elsewhere, you have them for reasonable rates.
For you I need no airs. No bra, no razor even. You won't kick me out if I tuck my boobs in my skirt and call myself dressed. If I don't brush my hair or brush my teeth, still you give me what I need.
I don't love you Wal-Mart, but I can't hate you either. So I will stand again, with the screams of the tortured, bored babies while my ice cream melts and the checker ages in front of my eyes. In your vortex of crazy I will return.