The Spotted Cucumber

 

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.