My knuckles scrape the cold hard back

My knuckles scrape the cold, hard back,

reaching for cream,

a forgotten Tupperware, off-track,

a nightmare, it would seem.

The plastic, opaque, a sickly white,

its lid, just a little askew.

Through cloudy film, a greenish blight,

a memory I never knew.

Or chose to forget. The bulge, so slight,

a puff of gas, a silent plea.

What festered there, beyond the light?

What rotting thing belongs to me?

The smell, it’s coming, thin and sour,

through plastic pores, a creeping dread.

I grip the handle, feel the power

of things unsaid, or better dead.

I can't. Not yet.