I stepped on a slice of bread! I pressed down harder, watching it flatten and spread beneath me, molding perfectly to the shape of my sole. There’s something so satisfying about leaving a mark like that. You're sitting there watching, wishing that was you. Wishing you could be stepped on and ignored by me. Ruined by me without a second thought. But you're not even bread, loser. You’re just watching from the floor, desperate for crumbs of attention while I leave imprints wherever I please. Flattened. Marked. Forgotten. That’s your fantasy, isn't it?
