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.