Oh honey, don’t even try.
This isn’t your basic toast-and-go.
This?
This is a moment.
A meal.
A main character.
A hot little diva on a plate.

Crispy toast.
Thicc and golden,
like it’s got a spray tan and knows it’s hot.
Butter’s dripping like gossip,
melting all “I woke up like this.”

Then comes Kewpie Mayo,
not your boring ol’ spread.
She’s creamy, she’s flirty,
she twirls on the bread like she’s in a drama
and she’s about to steal your man.

Next?
Tomatoes.
Not slices. Statements.
Redder than your ex’s lies,
with salt and black pepper sprinkled
like they just came back from a VIP spa.

The cheese? Melting.
Dripping. Stretchy. ****.
Basically lingerie for carbs.
She didn’t have to go this hard,
but she did. For you.

And then.
Oh. And then.
The egg drops in like a celebrity late to a party,
fried on the edges, golden in the center,
with yolk so runny it’s basically
crying tears of edible gold.

One poke
SPLASH.
Yolk waterfall. Drama. Delicious chaos.
It’s a breakfast and a soap opera,
and I’m eating every scene.

So don’t ask for a bite.
Don’t give me that look.
You had cereal. That’s your life now.
This?
This is luxury.
This is attitude.
This is toast that slays.