One fine day, tired of "always my way," I reached for comfort, or maybe just a craving. Picked up a spotted cucumber— Seemed harmless enough, so why not? But the moment I touched it, it pricked. Unwanted timber in my hands, Yet I let it be—what else could I do? Hunger led me to peel its layers, Only to find the filth it hid underneath. Worms writhing where freshness should be, Rot, disguised as something nourishing. I thought it was doing me a favor, But all it did was make me sick. Never knew comfort could leave such a taste— Bitter enough to spill my guts out. Next time, I’d rather reach for something rich, Something warm, indulgent, and worth my time. A smooth, chocolaty éclair— Rather than ever go for such a comfortable, unhealthy affair.
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