moldy bread
The bread on the counter has grown sour, pockmarked with white and green. Beside it sits more tempting companions — sweet things and love notes. But I do not indulge. Instead, I take a knife and scrape off the sour bits. I slice my finger in the process and watch blood stain the white of the counter. I will wipe it off in a few hours.
I put the bread in the oven, which I forgot to turn on, and wait for something which will never come to pass. The bread sits unchanging on a sheet pan, and I sit on the floor watching everything stay the same. It is 78 degrees today and I shiver in my sweater. I think about what I will put on my bread, and settle on the same option as the past six days — ham and cheese and jam. I like the battle between cloying and salty, the victor dependent on my mood. Today, the sweet will win and I will lick apricot jam from my bloody finger.
Sometime between staring at the unchanging bread and peeling the skin off my finger, I realize the oven is off. I take the bread out anyway, and slather it with the sweet and the savory, covering it up until I can not taste the mold anymore. Its contents will come tumbling out into the toilet some minutes later, but for now, it is heaven.