toast on the kitchen floor

the feeling that sulks in my bone marrow and weighs me down
melts into the air pockets of day old sourdough.

i didn't know that wanting to die was meltable.
i hoped it wasn't
now all i am left with is drips of oil and soot i never tracked in on my heel.
patches of raw feeling still keep their opaque huddling figures
but now it just looks like i have plain toast with molding clumps.
the crust is too hard for my crying jaws. i leave it on the cutting board.

a staler slice resides in the toaster that i have grown up with
so i get crumbs under my nails pulling it out.
fresher emotions that give the illusion of being gentle and friendly
are spread across the surface with the cchhh of 
butter knife on bread
i don’t close the feelings container because it's a pain in the ass 
and i always cut my fingertips just enough to feel the texture difference 
but not enough to hurt
i leave a smear of suicidality in the deli container.

of course its not enough for a whole slice of toast 
but thats too bad for whoever next finds themselves foolish enough to crave toast.

toast is dumb.

it takes the gentleness out of the fresh-baked bread and prods at over-chewed gums.
i only find myself seasoning a second toast because it's there 
and i need something to do.
i pull out a fresh plate and everything for my pretty little crunchy mean bread.
so many favors i've done.
i smeared my feelings out and stared them down 
like a single poppyseed on a fucking sesame bagel.
i also have mixed feelings about sesame seeds.
i’ll eat something that i didn't even know had sesame seeds but for some reason
i always wrestle with the tiny little flavor between my teeth for hours before i taste it.
sesame seeds are also dumb.

my stupid little toast is face down on the floor now and i'm not going to pick it up.