My Butter Isn't the Kind That Melts On a Piece of Toast

"Inspired by the genuine moment of disappointment I felt

when my butter would not melt."

– Naledi Biyela, 2025

My butter isn't the kind that melts

on a piece of toast 

It stays afloat, mocking me with a gloat

I've never been the kind of person to take things lightly

They sit on my chest like a boulder

That sinks as it grows

My thoughts are not the kind that fit

neatly in my notes

They infiltrate the corners and fill in the margins

They smudge, leaking out like ink

My life is not the kind that's wrapped 

neatly in a bow

It hurtles forward in a rush, then slows

It crashes into the people I know 

Then, just occasionally, it flows 

Into the most beautiful prose

My heart is not the kind 

that's easy to hold

It flickers on and off like a ghost

My love is anxious and makes a mess

So I keep it buried in the folds

of my dress

But anyway, it matters less

How you butter your toast 

As long as you're satisfied and whole.