I wandered slowly in a crowd,

and often stopped to check for spawns,

when all at once I saw a cloud,

of nearby, new-spawned Bulbasaurs!

Inside the park, beside the stream,

frowning and taunting on the screen.

Random as the rain that falls

and soaks the trainers hunting bugs,

they appeared at spots along the trail

unfazed by bumbling, real-life dogs.

Seven I caught, that day, in all,

each with a well-aimed Pokeball.

Kakunas, I had scores; but they

out-did the humble grubs ten-fold:

A trainer could not but keep play

with such steals to catch and hold.

I caught -- and caught -- but little thought

what cost this game to me has brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie

in vacant or in pensive mood,

my phone vibrates against my thigh,

disrupts the bliss of solitude,

and then compulsion in me grows,

and sucks me back to Pokemon Go.

This is the last time.

Go to the first cupboard and yank it open. Now the next, the next, the next. Yes, you can hate yourself. But keep going.

Sleeves of cookies press against bulging bags of granola. A loaf of soft white bread nestles between two unopened jars of homemade jam. Imagine the owner taking off the cloth cover, popping the lid open and spreading the jam carefully over crisp golden toast. Little feminine bites. Don’t you hate her?

Into the backpack it goes. All of it. You need it more than they do. You need it more than anything.

Jackpot. An industrial-sized jar of Nutella, surface barely gouged. Plunge in two fingers and suck them clean. Feel that burst of sugar hit and eclipse the world.

Fall through the door of your room; flick the lock. Empty the backpack onto the floor, crumbs scattering over the carpet.

Start with the substantial carbs, the heavy granola and thick, soft, yielding bread, to fill up the hunger that screams at you. Stuff them in until your head buzzes and your stomach drops and swells.

Hunger is primal; it’s older than morals.

Nutella: sweet, sickening intensity. Nauseated by the third spoonful, you keep eating. Isn’t it satisfying to reach the bottom of the jar? You took on this challenge and you won. You fucking won. You stole from those bitches and you destroyed the food they would have savored. Fuck them. Fuck the whole world.

Force cereal dust down your throat, gulping water to get it down. The world feels far away. You’re shaking and you can’t focus. You’re pathetic.

Strip. Bend double in the shower. Fuck your throat with your fingers. Your eyes burn with acid forced up through your sinuses. Your feet bathe in chocolate sludge. Taste it. Pull your fingers through it. Marvel at the warmth, the stretching viscosity of this pureed shame that pours out of you.

You’re only done when it runs clear. Reconstruct the shower drain, lean against the wall. Savor the exhausted emptiness. So pure. So peaceful.

This is the last time, right?

Just like every time before it.