Fridge Light Confession

The fridge hums its lonely song,

a low growl in the quiet, all night long.

I stand there, barefoot, cold tile on my soles.

My stomach hollow, making desperate holes

where sleep should be.

The fluorescent strip above the sink

buzzes, a harsh, electric blink.

Everything's too sharp, too white.

My reflection in the microwave's dark light

looks back, a ghost in a cheap T-shirt.

I find the cheese, half-nibbled, on a shelf.

Cold comfort, a shame I keep to myself.

The countertop slick beneath my palm.

Just me, the fridge, and this uneasy calm.

This raw, bright hunger for I don't know what.