Poetry

Gloop

It all started on

a Monday;

the contents of the pot dribbled

onto the floor,

flooding the newly polished tiles

with a voluminous

dark gloop.

 

The gloop was a mistake,

a recipe

gone wrong

from the mass of ingredients

forced to boil together.

Just like her life.

Spread out so thin

that she was barely a droplet of herself.

 

Working through the week,

she swept up the gloop

into heavy-duty sacks and buried it

among the mountains

of other people’s waste.

 

But for years after,

the gloop’s dark stain

remained.

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