Schrödinger's Cat

The refrigerator has skin.
It hums, cold through the cold night, singing to itself.
There is an emptiness wound into our mechanisms. 
In the dark, I poured myself a cup of orange juice. 
Acid, lips, lungs, I couldn't swallow; I rejected the sun. 
Like refrigerators, we are haunted by a timeless past. 
We hum our ancestral melodies to keep our insides from spoiling. 
I once heard a story about a cat.
It barfed up its guts after drinking antifreeze.
I like to think it survived.
a costume of itself, it continued to purr.