The Hood

I'm in Whole-ier than thou foods wandering and browsing when I notice a plethora of hooded people floating by.

It is as though they are dancing through the air.

Their fluffy attractiveness value exceeds the standard measure of such things.

The delicate nuances of colour and texture hypnotize me.

I am oddly drawn to them in ways reminiscent of my “once upon a time” fascination with all things horror.

I find myself contorting deeply within as a primal force, long forgotten, begins to awaken.

I feel afraid.

Beneath my modern, organic food junkie façade, I struggle to maintain my internal balance.

I have become the hunter. 

I turn to the mesmerizing hood standing next to me at the refrigerated greens section, and I stare. 
I stare with boring eyes into the brain hidden under the flouncy hood.
I am hungry with an inquiring desire that must be satisfied.
I energetically demand, with my will of steel, that they turn to meet my gaze.

I am left disappointed.

I continue my quest in the boutique jungle of pre-foraged food.

I forget why I am here. 

My foul attention is now on the bubbly, bouncing hoods.

They are everywhere.

I begin to taste the salty, bitter release of my watering mouth.

I question my sanity.

A hooded woman sashays by wearing designer yoga pants while carrying a container of vegetarian delights.
Her male counterparts bicker about the cost of gluten free bread and whether soy,be it organic or not, is ever a good choice.

The field is rampant with vegan alternatives that the hooded ones pluck from the shelves like they were harvesting happiness from the tree of life.

The flamboyant hoods are multiplying in every isle.
How can they breed so quickly?

My mind begins to twist into shapes it has chosen to forget.

My breathing is now shallow and fast.

I can smell confusion and rage.
It belongs to me.

I must escape before I go mad.

Suddenly my chest compresses and then, it happens...

My soul opens and from within it escapes an ancient sadness.

An archaic ache drowns my blame of stupidity.

It salves my judgement.

I decide not to strike as tears of compassion wash away the fire of hate in my belly.

The blood of a thousand Coyotes float by me at the checkout counters.  
Taken, without permission, without honour, so their hooded hosts can feel safe in the knowledge that their pretty, fur-lined hats will never freeze in the bitter cold of their, safe, Whole, stylish, inner city life.

(In appreciation to those who give).

Jasmine I.

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