Spoiled Milk

The milk is spoiled.

It sat atop the counter for minutes,

Hours,

Days,

Under the burning, slanted light

Filtering through midday into afternoon into evening

And curdled underneath the moon.

.

I sat in the chair upright,

A breathing skeleton.

Perfect posture,

Sagging then slouched.

I watched as the pure white separated

Into dingey ivory clumps

And a jaundiced liquid never to recombine.

.

Moonlight trickled in on a cold breeze

Through the cracked window

Ruffling my state

And skimming the wobbly surface of the glass.

I shivered.

The milk did not move.

Did not breathe.

.

The moon reached its peak

And my ribs curled ever inward,

Suffocating dreams in my chest,

Smothering passion in my lungs

Until all that I could smell

Was tart disappointment,

Sour milk.

.

I am caged.

Like the sour milk locked in its glass

Watching the subtle shift of time,

I am pinned by the smallness of my ribcage,

The grandiosity of my words.

I am spoiled.

Stuck to the chair as I go rancid.

.

Has all the sand drifted from my hourglass?

Perhaps my plot has unravelled,

Fallen to pieces

Waiting for me to drink from its edges

Like the spoiled milk atop my counter.

I mourn the milk sitting in the darkness.

I grieve the loss of something...cosmic.

.

It soured in my blood

Months back,

Years back,

And has turned something in me to acid

That eats and eats and eats

Away at the brokenness of others,

The inhumanity of stupidity.

.

At night, it leaves me alone

With my spoiled milk and rancid thoughts.

Something died when the tremble of my hands

Vanished.

Something rotten in my chest

Solidified like my glass of ancient milk

And I grieve, I grieve, I grieve.

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Silver Serpent Books

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