The Container

It's been in there since before Christmas.

I've been pretending it doesn't exist.

This morning my partner asked about the smell.

I opened the fridge and couldn't avoid it anymore—

the opaque plastic, the way

I can't quite see what's inside,

the smell that comes out

like a small death.

I don't remember making it.

It might be growing something.

I don't want to know.

There's a line between not knowing

and refusing to know,

and I crossed it weeks ago

when I stopped opening that drawer,

when I let the door swing shut

on the thing I couldn't face.

Now I have to look.

My partner's face says I have to.

The smell says I have to.

I'm still standing here

with my hand on the plastic,

unable to open it,

unable to put it back,

unable to do anything

but know

that something in me

is rotting.