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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