Bin.
You sit
Under the counter.
Eating what we don’t.
Or won’t.
You are
Hollow,
There is nothing to you.
And yet
At your core,
There is a darkness.
Putrid
Rotting
Hellish inside.
But
Indispensable,
That’s what your are.
Sometimes
I wipe you
But my caress
Is not one of love.
I shirk
To touch you.
We all have
Stains and
Bruises,
Marks we wish
Could just rub
Away. But yours
They disgust me.
Maybe the pain
That you cause
Is really just
My guilt.
So much waste.
And you,
You see it all.
I have no
Secrets.
Not from you.
Maybe my revulsion
Isn’t your fault.
Do you
Just remind me that
Consumerism
And greed
Run my life?
Am I too harsh?
Should I
Show you
Respect?
No.
You’re filled
With my
Shit.
My rubbish.
My waste.
I don’t like you
Because you smell.
You are just
Bin.
The Write Site 