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.
Nice. Well written.
Thanks, Chelsy!
You’re eventually going to be publishing these, right?
Ha! You’re too kind, blog friend.