a perfectly good cookie;

left on the bottom oven rack a little too long.

it’s not his fault.

burnt from someone else’s mind wandering away,

not paying attention,


he never asked to leave cookie dough form.

he was perfectly happy being eaten bit by bit by innocent fingers that couldn’t wait the 12 minutes it took him to be cooked.

all he wanted was to be delicious.

now he has people turning him over, 

refusing to take a bite,

scared that the black on his bottom side would override the powerful taste of the sweet white chocolate chips in his center.

he’s scarred,

marked by the heat he didn’t choose to sunbathe in.

it was something out of his control,

something that many cookies before have had to encounter.

people always pick and choose.

he’s the one that’s never going to get chosen,

the one everyone picks up,

and puts back down.

no one wants to taste him and with his brothers by his side they sit.

they wait on the plate next to the “good batch” everyone seems to admire.

“They’re so good,” they say.

“Yeah, but these ones are a little burnt,” pointing out the darkness,

comparing them to their distant cousins who, to the people, have it better off.

but when someone picks up the “good batch” they crumble and crack.

their bond is not strong enough to keep them together,

unlike their blackened brothers who refuse to bend for anyone.


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