The toast is a scorched plank

The toast is a scorched plank

scraping the roof of my mouth.

When I try to chew, I find the hinges

have rusted shut during the night.

Three weeks since we spoke,

and I am still biting down

on the words I didn't say.

My molar clicks against a metal filling,

a sharp, electric telegraph

in the silence of the breakfast nook.

I didn't notice the pressure,

the way I’ve been holding my head

like a fist,

until the first bite forced a confession

from the bone right below my ear.