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Spoiled Milk

  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.

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  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.

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