Salt

The toast is too dry.

The sound of the crunch

is loud in the empty house.

I caught the side of the cheek.

A sharp, metallic flash.

I check the damage in the glass.

It’s a thick, pink muscle.

Wet and trapped behind the teeth.

It wants to say the name.

It wants to crawl out of the throat

and hide in the corner

with the rest of the things

I haven't said yet.