The butter hasn't melted yet
by heatsharper
· 04/02/2026
Published 04/02/2026 19:29
The butter hasn't melted yet.
I press the metal to the bread.
A habit born of old regret
is moving through my hand and head.
I hold the fork like it’s a blade,
My knuckles turning sharp and white.
The same defensive, bitter shade
Of every Sunday morning fight.
I click my tongue against my teeth,
The ghost of him just underneath.