I burned my toast.
Burned it again.
But this time,
I refuse to eat it.
Last week,
I chewed my last piece of charred toast,
and didn’t even realise.
No longer will I let the world
pull my hands from my own table,
distract me from MY toast,
MY bread,
MY meal.
I've burned my last piece of toast.
Ffs, Moya,
take care of your toast!
It’s yours.
If you burn it and don’t eat it,
it’s your bread wasted—not theirs.
Pay attention to your toast.
No one else will.
I've crunched my last bitter, blackened piece
while others savour the best slices,
dripping with honey,
while they sip their hot tea—mine spinning in the microwave,
for the fifth time,
which, of course, is how I burned my toast to begin with.
I will take my time.
I will eat slowly.
I will savour every moment.
I will keep watch over my toaster.
I will keep watch over me.
And to that voice,
the quiet tyrant calling me to bend,
to give until I’m hollow—I will stab to death the internal monologue
that calls me to be a slave to those around me
before myself.
MY. MY. ME. ME.I. I.
The eldest black daughter’s final cuss:
'Fuck you all!'
...I’m making more toast,
and I’ll take my damn time eating it, too.
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