Fallen Star

The cold door groans open,

then a punch, sour-sweet,

sickly green like bad money.

My eyes sting shut.

It's in the crisper, a small

planet, a sun that went dark,

then fuzzy. Orange rind

a memory, now just a collapsed husk.

A black liquid, thin, weeping

from its core. A tiny mold forest,

proud on decay.

I breathe through my mouth, but the taste

is already there, clinging to the back

of my throat.

How long? How many days

did it sit, a quiet rot,

some slow disaster I let happen,

drawing breath

from the same cold air

that keeps the milk safe.

It makes me question

everything I thought I was keeping

alive.