Last Resort Meal

The box smells like regret

and greasy hands from yesterday.

Cold chicken bites

licked clean by loneliness.

A rare treat,

saved for nights when the air tastes sour,

and the house is too quiet.

Fingers tug at stained paper,

opening brittle corners

like unwrapping a secret

that tastes like lost warmth.

Bitter in the mouth,

fried and faded,

a flavor that hugs hard,

and lets go too soon.