I open the door.


    Lights turn on.


    I close the door.


    Lights turn off.


    I open the door.


    Cold wind sweeping around my feet


    wondering what I should eat


    finding nothing, close, rinse and repeat.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    I open the door.


    It stares at me, just sitting there.


    It came from a time from before,


    sitting on a base of square.


    A gift from my mother that I tried to refuse.


    I don''t use milk. She knows that.


    I had to accept, but it''s just a ruse.


    It''s lactose free. I hate that.


    I''ve been staring this past minute.


    It''s been there for a year.


    As if posessed by a spirit,


    it''s the only thing I truly fear.


    Last time I touched it, weeks ago,


    it felt bloated, balooned, pop.


    Instinct quickly made me let go,


    hoping that would make it stop.


    I close the door.


    It is still there to this day.


    Swinging with, hope it will stay


    ''cause this is the only way


    and I dare not ask for more.