Marshmallows suck. There. I said it. Before you attack me hear me out. Let me set the scene. You're sitting outside on a chilly October night, surrounded by your closest friends, laughing and singing dumb campfire songs. Even though the music is loud, the comforting crackling of the fire is still heard and it reminds you that you are here. You are not spinning around alone and forgotten. You are here. In your best friend's backyard, with your other friends, with food, with music. For a split second, everything is okay. You don't think about how you failed your Chemistry test. You don't think about how your dad left. You don't think about how Katniss should have gotten with Gale. You don't feel crippled by life. You feel okay.

Until Emma brings out the marshmallows. Sure, some people like them. They're soft. Squishy. Kind of like boobs. But those little clouds of gelatin, corn starch, sugar and water are demons in disguise. They are impossible to roast properly. If you overcook them they shrivel and burn, just like your GPA. If you undercook them, they're hot and cold. Indecisive. Just like that girl you were gonna ask out. Marshmallows can act like they are perfect. All golden on the outside when really they are just sticky and gross on the inside, just like your life. On the outside you seem to have everything together when in reality you are just as confused and lost as everyone else. But, for the sake of those still clinging to the hope that marshmallows are good, lets just say you were able to correctly cook one. It's golden. Melty. Not too burnt, not too soft. Right in between.

Now try eating it. You can try this three different ways. The first, is just eating it right off the skewer. Good luck with that. You will burn your face off. In your haste to remove the smoldering skewer from your face you will burn your fingers. You will end up in the emergency room with second degree burns and when the nurse asks you what happened, you will lose all dignity and tell her you tried to eat a marshmallow.

The second, is waiting until the marshmallow has cooled down enough to touch and eating it with your hands. Bad plan. Very. Bad. Plan. Only three things can bring something together faster than a college student with a two hour deadline; Hate, the gel form of super glue and a half melted marshmallow. Got melted marshmallow between your fingers? Get used to living a cohesive life with your fingers cemented together, because friend, that's never coming off. It will get stuck in your hair. It will get stuck in your clothes. Accidentally touch someone? Congratulations! You and that poor person are now siamese twins. There is no escaping it. You will suffer through life with a preventable handicap. All because you tried to eat a marshmallow.

The third and final way one can try to enjoy a marshmallow is by making a smore. What could be better than a warm chocolate covered melted marshmallow squished between two golden graham crackers? Sanity. Have you ever tried to eat a smore? The chocolate never stays on the marshmallow. The graham crackers always break. You will burn fingers and your mouth. The chocolate will always be colder than the marshmallow. And those are just the trials of eating a smore, I'm not even going to mention how hard it is to make one. Twenty years later you are still living in denial. You still pretend to enjoy this process. You are trapped in a never ending saga, because you just had to eat a marshmallow.

So, Emma brings out the marshmallows. Everyone gets up and goes for the skewers. You sit alone, accompanied only by the cold air, distant laughter from friends and the fire. The red, blue and orange swirl together into flames and the comforting crackling has now turned into a mocking laugh. You are alone. Again. Marshmallows suck.

It has been one hundred years since the day I stood in the doorway with the wind clawing its fingers through my hair and turned, finally, into its hungry embrace, deciding then that I would never look back at you.

It is the anniversary of the day I fled into the woods surrounding our cottage, woods that used to protect me, but now suffocated me, the trees lashing their branches together and spitting water down upon my shoulders as if they mourned for me, but still could not let me go.

I ran until my feet tracked blood behind me along with the remains of my soul, unspooling from me like silver thread still caught between your fingers.

It has been one hundred years since I stumbled through the rain, and the edge of the chasm yawned before me, and I closed my eyes, expecting to feel the fall, but I never did. Instead, when I opened my eyes, the stars swam before me like rungs on a ladder, and I tangled my fingers around their sharp edges and pulled myself upward. Their light lodged beneath my fingernails and my blood stained some of them so red, the astronomers peered up in shock and could not explain their unexpected jump to supernova.

When I reached the overarching dome of the universe, I banged my fists on the glass, crying for entry, but I was just a soul trapped beneath the ice, and I couldn't climb any further. The dust of the cosmos lodged in my throat and with its bitter taste in my mouth, I swam back down towards where you waited.

I lived in the branches of the trees above where you walked, I wove the stems of flowers together into crowns to adorn my hair, just to have something mortal still about me. I watched you grow older from afar, watched the life bleed out of you naturally, not like mine, not like the knife wound in my shoulder the night I fled.

When your soul shed your body like snakeskin and, shaking itself, began its own upward climb, I watched the stars until their molten silver dripped onto my cheeks like paint, allowing me the facade of tears. I saw you swim through the dome that's trapped me for, now, one hundred years. Kneeling above the Milky Way, I knit crowns out of stars, and sometimes, when I'm moved to, I place the stars in the eyes of mortals who remind me of who I could have been.

Whisper your promises

in echoes of life -

words filling cracks

in my mind.

A blissful shelter

calming my turmoil.

restless manifestations

that the sun

will ignite the heart,

flash future expectations.

symphonies of cardinals.

But the sun alienates

my fading emotions

in ephemeral transitory

brevity as life changes

and evolves and

metamorphoses into

molten red ball.

Life begins and ends,

ashes in the ground,

but flashes of

future expectations

vow growth

of new beginnings.

Flames of warmth

rekindle and ooze

through battered

cracks of façades

rekindling

manifest destiny -

to love and live

and wave hello

and goodbye

knowing that which

I have sowed

will continue

as my legacy

and I will

continue on,

a seed in

the fresh earth.

This earth has fuel

that you should consider rare;

As it provides the means for ‘all’ to take care.

Use in moderation and ‘life’ you shall spare;

Abuse it and gain

a ‘half-life’ of despair.

For you are all my children so be aware;

That there’s a formula for all to be fair.

It’s the burden of choice that’s your hurdle to bear;

Where your rate of consumption shall feed how you fare.

And so I hereby un-earth this resourceful solution;

As the answer to the problem of resource pollution.

All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 1986-2018. Alan Salé

PoetryByAlan.com

COLORS

---an explanation for those who cannot see them

---provided by The One They Misplaced

RED is

The bold and hollow horn beckoning you to rise

The warmth of the sunset on your skin

The strength of saying good-bye to one you know you will never see again

ORANGE is

Breath spiraling through a pipe, a gasp not quite manifesting a whistle

Rough rock beneath your knees

The trust that you will do as you must

YELLOW is

A young girl’s giggle

The tickle of an insect landing on your finger

The flutter in your stomach when the ground disappears beneath your feet

GREEN is

The wooden voice of a double reed

The wind, neither warm nor cold, brushing your cheeks

The desire to look around the next corner, peer into every box, always asking how and why

BLUE is

Raindrops sliding down leaves and plopping into a pond

A soft blanket wrapped around your shoulders

The fierce, protective, frustrated love of a mother

PURPLE is

The chime of metal kissing glass

Standing under a waterfall, arms coated in sleeves of movement

The amusement wrought by solving a puzzle