Cookie

at the end of the day,
we can all classify ourselves as cookies.
we are born from cracked eggs and a stick of butter-
whisked to existence in a porcelain bowl.

a delicate hand drizzles baking soda over the batter that is us-
we are given the power to rise,
enveloped by the restorative love of our maker
before we meet our fate in the cozy oven.

we succumb to the heat,
the scorching sun melding with our being-
infiltrating our body, our soul-
and yet we rise with such adversity.

we are cookies;
our batter is coated generously in granulated sugar-
pleasure, reward, hope
and yet we are speckled with salt-
merging flavors that create a wholesome product.

often we are the subject of multiple facades-
dotted in colorful sprinkles that veils our essence.
we are molded by society’s precise hand,
our edges ripped away the blunt force of the cookie cutter.

our packaging defines us,
shimmery golden paper and pastel ribbons.
we are the face we uphold,
not the content that we possess.

cast aside are those of us burnt and doughy,
our value lost amidst the wafting scent of the perfect holiday cookie.
we aren’t made into a crumble or are we re-baked;
rather, we meet the trash can, sullen, lost, and speechless.

we are unsure of ourselves-
lost in tin cans and gauze bags and plastic boxes-
yearning for the acceptance of our beloved consumer.
they sink their teeth into our surface, piercing through our smooth exterior-

our melted chocolate and cream filling ooze through our skin-
past our façade, our conduct, our grace.
we are vulnerable at the mercy of the world.

[preheat to 325 degrees to produce a human being]