My skin hums with a stale leftover heat
like the aftertaste of toast
on the tounge of the palm
wrapped around a used toaster.

My hair crunches
like thin dry crusts around my face,
my cheeks still buttery and soft and glistening from lotion.

I am the transformed wonderbread
that laid and carmalized in the balmy oven.

I am warmly darkened,
cooked to a new word.
I am dehydrated with sunshine,
satiated with sunscreen.
I am happily toast.