Cold air rushes past my face

Cold air rushes past my face,

a hidden jar in its shadowed place.

Mold curls tight like darkened lace,

a secret trapped in plastic’s embrace.

I hesitate, the scent a blade,

an accusation that won’t fade.

Weeks of avoidance, frozen dread,

a quiet horror just up ahead.

Behind the peppers, untouched milk,

rotting stories wrapped in silk.

A thing I fear to see unveiled,

where forgotten decay prevailed.