Enrichment

Eleven o'clock and the light in the fridge

is the only thing keeping the room awake.

I reach into the box,

the cardboard tearing like a dry scab.

I eat dry handfuls over the sink.

It doesn't taste like the Saturday mornings

with the curtains drawn and the volume low.

It tastes like metallic salt and tin,

leaving my fingertips stained a violent blue,

the color of a bruise that won't settle.