Burnt Marshmallows

Some things are just not neat.

Some things are meant to be left unedited.

And some things just can’t be put into words.

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I have found lately that I’ve been trying to edit parts of my life. More specifically, edit all of the feelings and emotions. For what purpose? To find balance?  To deny my heart acceptance? To package it in a nice, neat little box where the lid fits perfectly on top?

No one likes all the well-kept little emotions that are organized and categorized. That’s impalpable.

Over the past few years, I have been an expert at denying feeling. I guess we can think of emotions like smores in the hands of a small child. The child doesn’t care that the chocolate drips down his pinky finger, cascading onto his forearm. The child doesn’t care that all of his digits have suddenly become sticky with a white gooey mess that adults would frown upon. The child doesn’t care about the crumbles decorating his pants and the ground around his tiny body. He will pick those up later…maybe. And maybe, he will disregard them, leaving the mess for someone or something else.

All he cares about is what is in his mouth – white and brown all overflowing with sensation, so full that there are no words.

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Maybe this is just a silly analogy for emotions but man it feels more real than anything else right now.

I am like that little child, over zealous and excited about the marshmallow I just lit on fire (because let’s face it I like my marshmallows garnished in a burnt crunch). So I bulldoze the entire thing into my mouth and it’s so good… but fuck it burns.

…and I have no choice but to sit there in bittersweet agony until the searing cools.

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Today I feel. And it just hurts.

© /skin/ /ˈpōətrē/

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