I am my trash
I am the crumpled napkins, stained with my day’s meals.
I am the half-used sriracha bottle, caved in and almost two years expired.
I am the slimy residue lurking in the interior of a hollow can of Spam.
I am the empty avocado skins, scraped clean of those oh-so-healthy fats.
I am the unfilled salsa jar, reeking of room-temperature, processed tomato bits.
I am the barely-yellow banana peels, browning more and more in this SoCal winter.
I am the smooth paper plates, covered in the juices of last night’s dinner.
I am the yogurt cups, void of my filling, save for the unreachable nooks beginning to reek of rotting milk.
I am the mushy strawberry stems and cores, missing my refrigerated safety.
I am the cartons of almond milk, lying dented and relieved of the weight inside me.
I am the still-fragrant garlic cloves, overpowering the other odors I mix with.
I am the boiled bay leaves, stuck to one another as if afraid of separation.
I am the cheap can of corned beef used to make a salty cabbage soup.
I am the soaked oolong tea bags, stripped of all my flavor and aroma.
I am the lone bandaid, soiled by the blood of my former host.
I am the sliced ends of a plump roma tomato, decomposing with the kitchen heat.
I am the forgotten onions and cilantro, unused for my intended purpose.
I am the hot chili peppers, soaked in soy sauce and sour apple cider vinegar.
I am the brussels sprouts stems, dried out and useless.
I am the packet of maple and brown sugar oatmeal with grains of sweet dust hiding in my corners.
I am the single piece of parchment paper, crinkling with any slight contact with my neighbors, new and old.
I am my trash.