a carton, in a closed room, half-sealed
still, yet swelling, bulges
from gas release, yet not still
out small softened delicate creases.
spoiled milk, our heart, that is
sour smell filling trapped air
nose scrunch, flares
at the stench of spoiled zeal.
my chest, tight, still burns
from past love’s residue:
acid-rich ache. a burp
not burped, a fart not farted.
Yra is, at times, an aspiring writer from Davao de Oro. Her notes are filled with to-do lists she never gets to cross out.