Fridge Light

The door swings open—

a burst of sour dampness hits

like a damp cloth dragged over skin.

Green mold creeps, glistening wet,

along the rim of cracked plastic.

Leftovers spilled, slow and soft,

slick and stubborn in their slow slide,

a quiet invasion beneath the flicker

of a lonely fridge bulb’s eye.

I press my nose to the cold shelf,

a breath held tight, stomach clenched,

watching the slow unraveling

of what time forgot to claim.

Rot grows loud in silence,

a whisper thick with neglect,

the heavy weight of decay

inside a cold, humming box.