Sour Milk

Sour milk assumes its position
in my small
tortured fridge.
A reminder that I sat
alone in a chair for weeks
making myself sick on drink
and forgetting that I need to live.

That milk smells rotten, sad,
says
“Dare me.”

I sold your shoes for that milk,
must be why it’s bad.
Maybe it’s like you
sweet at first,
lovely on the tongue,
then bitter.
Maybe it’s like me, though–
Sour all the time.

 

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