30 Days in the Fridge | Poal: Say what you want.

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In a forgotten corner of the pantry, where light dared not trespass and spiders spun prayers from threads of ancient patience, there sat a potato. At first, it was whole— plump with starchy pride, its skin mottled with earthy specks like freckles on a sun-kissed child. It had come from the fields, clutched in the calloused hands of a farmer who never thought to name it, but who brushed the dirt from its back with tenderness just the same. It had dreams once— to become a dish that pleased, mashed under buttered hopes, fried in golden celebration, or folded into the warmth of stew. But the days passed. And no one came.

Day 1 It waited in stillness, tucked behind a tin of soup. A single beam of light trickled through the cracks of the cabinet, stroking its side like the memory of affection.

Day 2 A fly buzzed by, uninterested.

Day 5 The air grew heavy. Loneliness, thick as flour, sifted slowly onto its skin. Something inside began to soften. Not all at once—no, doubt seeps in like water through a loose window. It still told itself, I will be found. I will be peeled, and purposed. I matter.

Day 8 A small bruise bloomed like a secret. An echo of something said and not forgotten. “You’re not like the others,” the carrot had whispered once, its voice sharp and orange. “You’re too… soft. Too plain.” The potato laughed it off then, but now the words stuck to its skin.

Day 10 Something curled at its edges. A subtle shriveling. It tried to puff itself back to pride— to sit tall, to remember how full it used to feel. But gravity is cruel to the wilted.

Day 13 A leak formed, thin as a hairline crack in glass. From within, a dark nectar oozed. Sweet at first, then sour. The scent of being forgotten. It began to believe that no one was coming. That the hands which had once held it had moved on to brighter produce.

Day 15 A sprout. White and pale green, a trembling finger reaching toward nothing. “Maybe,” it whispered, “this is how I become beautiful again. Maybe growth comes from being broken.” But sprouts twist when they grow in the dark. They reach out blindly, desperate for sun that will never find them there.

Day 17 The silence began to speak. It said: “You are not the meal. You are not the feast. You are the waste.” Each word planted deeper than any root.

Day 20 Mold kissed its skin, delicate as frost, a gray shawl pulled over sagging shoulders. It tried to hum. To make music out of its rot. But rot makes no melody— only muffled sighs and the soft collapse of what used to be structure.

Day 23 There were voices somewhere outside the cabinet. Laughter, clinks of glasses, a recipe being read aloud. It dared to hope. Shuffled a bit, cracked slightly with effort. But the door never opened. The light never returned.

Day 25 It had a name once. Didn’t it? A kind. A category. Something Latin, something proud. But even that felt distant now. It was not a russet, or a Yukon Gold. It was just…

Day 27 It dreamed of the field. The loose soil crumbling around it, worms weaving through its dreams. There, it had purpose. There, the sun had said, “Grow.” Here, it was shrinking.

Day 29 The mold bloomed like lace. Elegant in its decay. There was a strange peace in no longer pretending to be fresh. The weight of pretending— that was the true rot.

Day 30 The door creaked open. A hand reached in. “Ugh. What is that smell?” It was lifted. Cradled not in celebration, but with fingertips curled in disgust. Discarded. Dropped into a plastic bag with coffee grounds and eggshells. Thrown away not because it had no worth, but because no one had looked soon enough to remember that it once did.

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In a forgotten corner of the pantry, where light dared not trespass and spiders spun prayers from threads of ancient patience, there sat a potato. At first, it was whole— plump with starchy pride, its skin mottled with earthy specks like freckles on a sun-kissed child. It had come from the fields, clutched in the calloused hands of a farmer who never thought to name it, but who brushed the dirt from its back with tenderness just the same. It had dreams once— to become a dish that pleased, mashed under buttered hopes, fried in golden celebration, or folded into the warmth of stew. But the days passed. And no one came. Day 1 It waited in stillness, tucked behind a tin of soup. A single beam of light trickled through the cracks of the cabinet, stroking its side like the memory of affection. Day 2 A fly buzzed by, uninterested. Day 5 The air grew heavy. Loneliness, thick as flour, sifted slowly onto its skin. Something inside began to soften. Not all at once—no, doubt seeps in like water through a loose window. It still told itself, I will be found. I will be peeled, and purposed. I matter. Day 8 A small bruise bloomed like a secret. An echo of something said and not forgotten. “You’re not like the others,” the carrot had whispered once, its voice sharp and orange. “You’re too… soft. Too plain.” The potato laughed it off then, but now the words stuck to its skin. Day 10 Something curled at its edges. A subtle shriveling. It tried to puff itself back to pride— to sit tall, to remember how full it used to feel. But gravity is cruel to the wilted. Day 13 A leak formed, thin as a hairline crack in glass. From within, a dark nectar oozed. Sweet at first, then sour. The scent of being forgotten. It began to believe that no one was coming. That the hands which had once held it had moved on to brighter produce. Day 15 A sprout. White and pale green, a trembling finger reaching toward nothing. “Maybe,” it whispered, “this is how I become beautiful again. Maybe growth comes from being broken.” But sprouts twist when they grow in the dark. They reach out blindly, desperate for sun that will never find them there. Day 17 The silence began to speak. It said: “You are not the meal. You are not the feast. You are the waste.” Each word planted deeper than any root. Day 20 Mold kissed its skin, delicate as frost, a gray shawl pulled over sagging shoulders. It tried to hum. To make music out of its rot. But rot makes no melody— only muffled sighs and the soft collapse of what used to be structure. Day 23 There were voices somewhere outside the cabinet. Laughter, clinks of glasses, a recipe being read aloud. It dared to hope. Shuffled a bit, cracked slightly with effort. But the door never opened. The light never returned. Day 25 It had a name once. Didn’t it? A kind. A category. Something Latin, something proud. But even that felt distant now. It was not a russet, or a Yukon Gold. It was just… Day 27 It dreamed of the field. The loose soil crumbling around it, worms weaving through its dreams. There, it had purpose. There, the sun had said, “Grow.” Here, it was shrinking. Day 29 The mold bloomed like lace. Elegant in its decay. There was a strange peace in no longer pretending to be fresh. The weight of pretending— that was the true rot. Day 30 The door creaked open. A hand reached in. “Ugh. What is that smell?” It was lifted. Cradled not in celebration, but with fingertips curled in disgust. Discarded. Dropped into a plastic bag with coffee grounds and eggshells. Thrown away not because it had no worth, but because no one had looked soon enough to remember that it once did.