My dad taught me how to toast campfire marshmallows when I was young. But no matter how hard I tried to follow his instructions, I always burnt them. All my cousins got to enjoy their smores and to the corner, I had a growing pile of coal like I was on some naughty list. I followed the same recipe every year, only to end up eating char again and again, I thought I should pretend I burnt it on purpose, and so I did, my smouldering secret. It’s better than admitting I still don’t know or that I am just incapable of doing it. I’ll silently suffer through my frustrations, no one will suspect anything. My pride tastes better than the bitter marshmallows anyways. My marshmallows and this secret burned and burned for years, I became so good at pretending, people would even give me their accidental crispy marshmallows thinking I loved them. My teeth now dull, encrusted with charcoal and a permanent smoky aftertaste stains me, every swallow I am reminded of my continued failure. And so, every year I’ll secretly try my hardest to toast my marshmallows perfectly like everyone else, deep down knowing that it’s a luxury I can never afford. Every year my fate never changes, the striking burnt smell comes from my stick and my gut sinks like an anchor, everyone will continue to think I like it this way. I shouldn’t cry, but tears quietly roll down my eye, before the fire steams it away, no one can know. I want what everyone can so effortlessly do so bad, it’s so simple, ‘why can’t I do it?’, I question myself over and over as if I have the answers. But I always hold the stick too close to the flame. This craving of mine that will never be satisfied, my stomach gnaws its teeth at the thought of it, but all I can feed myself are purposely burnt marshmallows.
