Behind the Fridge Door

The light flickers weak inside the fridge,

a pale blob spreading slow,

across a cracked plastic lid,

slick and bulging with forgotten wet.

I lift the container—sludge lets go,

sour, sharp, like the breath

of a thing long dead but not gone,

dark green fuzz clutching the edges tight.

A smell hits, thick and stubborn,

settling deep in the kitchen air,

where quiet morning waits, interrupted

by the stink of time leaking out.

I shut the door fast,

heart pinched, stomach clenched.

The rot doesn’t wait for me,

moving slow behind the fridge door.