Spoonful of Cold

The clinic smell, it clung to me,

like something I couldn't shake free.

So I walked straight past the bright fruit aisle,

and grabbed a tub, for a little while.

The cookie dough, cold, straight from the fridge.

No bowl, no plate, no proper bridge

to comfort, just this plastic rim.

My molars ached, the feeling dim.

The raw sugar grit, a sweet, cold burn.

Each bite a small, specific turn.

This heavy sadness, in my throat.

Just chewing through, what someone wrote.