hate.

i hate the number 12,

and i hate this glitter

in the air.

i am breathing the dust

your body left behind.

i am trying to keep

the dents you made

in the bread,

i saw the quick

violent breaks

when you made toast

this morning.

i hate toast

and ruined bread,

fat dots of butter

melted by heat,

the opaque and clear

so dangerously near.

i hate butter

and fake grape jam.

i trail the glitter

and the butter,

stale crumbs

over my keyboard,

to write:

i hate you. but

i hate me more.