April 6

Burnt toast scratches my tongue 
reminding me of the mornings
where I thought I was the one molding
my life
only to find a piece of clay
imprinted with the most delicate touch 
that wasn't mine
A piece of bread
with an unexpected charred corner
that dusts my mouth
with the sweet and painful taste of metal 
Why does the lack of control 
surprise me every time?
It flutters inside me 
locks away my hands
and tells them to stop 
trying to rule the world