Something in the Fridge

A container lurks in the back of the shelf,

dusty and gray, a relic of shame,

it whispered my name, a message from hell—

the odor creeps up, it’s a hunger’s bad game.

Pale green tendrils dance like ghosts in the dark,

a science project blooming, a testament grim.

In the shadows of food, I’ve forgotten the spark,

each smell a reminder of hope growing dim.