The Legions of Burnt Toast
He just has to scrape me off. He can't throw me away and start again. It's not in his psyche. I remind him too much of when he was young.
I'll end up on the back of his throat, but not quite yet. I'll have to bide my time. He doesn't appreciate me. Sickly sweet sharp carbon is an acquired taste.
Right now little bits of me are lodged in the serrated knife he's used to scrap me off into the sink. The noise, the deafening smoke detector beep makes him panic. He's no good under pressure. He should throw me away and start again, but he can't. He's scraping off too much of me now. Can't he see I'm untoasted and white in the middle? I think he likes scraping me more than eating me.He enjoys the rasp, the tearing of the fibres across my surface. He likes the feel of smooth cold steel in his clenched palm. I suppose I sound better than I taste. I'm just burnt toast. But we'll get him. Just you wait. We'll get in the butter.
And we'll wait till next time.
submitted at 11:50am
20 May 2009
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