Heel of the Loaf

I'm just the slice you often push past,
It doesn’t matter if I’m first or last.

Set aside while you reach for pairs,
Those perfect fits that meet your cares.

My misshaped form seems out of place,
Lumpy and rigid, taking up space.

When will I find my pair?
Will it be at the end?
When I’m in my despair, will I even mend?

Will I be chosen, fit perfectly with another,
Or cast aside, like no one could bother?

Even if paired, in the end, I'd have been through so much, Stale and crumbling, with a faded touch.

The thought of being paired, though it sounds sweet,
Feels like a burden I can’t quite meet.