without the butter

without the butter,

the knife is a sparkle on the counter in the pale morning light, a silent accuser- You of otherwordly longings

(little mermaid thirst beyond water, above with the sun that rips out her voice and leaves the soles of her feet bloody)

without the butter,

the bread smells good, too good, warm and fresh and a bit like sin, a bit like all the times you said “no” when you should have said “yes”

(then you gave in anyway)

without the butter,

the coffee kicks gut, the coffee charges through the bloodstream, whispering the wolves awake- here is a new morning and you must wake up, you must be brave, you must.

without the butter,

I am me, paralyzed, in the glint of too much much-ness, in the pressed thoughts of yesteryear, on the cliff, a- stutter, between choices and lathering the bread or pressing knife to scar

(letting go has many phases, and many faces, and always- with eyes closed and soul with fist clenched tight with prayer)

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