I hate that smell.

Plastic scorched to the pan —

stuck to the stove —

stuck to my brain.

Hits the lungs like a warning,

clamps my chest,

twists my gut,

kicks open doors I swore I bricked shut.

It don’t wash off.

It hangs there —

not smoke… a memory.

A memory with teeth.

Feels like hunger sometimes —

like an empty room inside my ribs

calling my name real quiet,

like it wants to bargain.

And I know better.

I built my life back,

slow and stubborn —

one day stacked on the next.

But here’s the part folks don’t like to hear:

that edge never leaves.

It just waits.

And every day,

I walk past it,

jaw clenched,

hands steady —

choosing no

again and again…

Because once you’ve been there,

you don’t forget.

You just fight quieter.