Regular Poem: The Ice Box of My Heart

My fingers tremble with
a tingle of
trepidation
as I grip the small, smooth handle
and pry gently, slowly.
I grimace as I look inside.

I’ve opened up the ice box of my heart,
looking for a midnight snack
yet knowing nothing’s in there.

Well,
nothing that I want to be in there.

I see the jug of expired tears
and a six-pack of regret
and a few slices of hurt.
The bottle of spite
and the carton of desire.

It’s mostly leftovers,
to be honest.

I sniff a tupperware container
of stale happiness
and close the door again.

I’ve made my grocery list,
but I just can’t
seem to make it to the store.

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