It’s late and it’s my turn to take the garbage out. I will get yelled and screamed at, but I must take the garbage out.
These bags smell like trash and it seeps into my clothes.
I become trash.
I see the moon bright and the shadow from the street lamp distracts me somewhat from the putrid dripping that hits the gravel driveway as I drag the garbage to the bin.
I have to lift the rubbish up and drop it in the dark hole and it’s there that I come face to face with the remnants of the week, molded and decomposing, like my insides.
I hold my breath and count to ten, twice, no three times and slam the bin shut.
Oh how it hurts to take the garbage out.