Baking a Cake
I was told that baking a cake
Is a delicate task.
And to turn off my sun
To not to ruin the cake
With a deflated fall.
And so, I tiptoed around the oven,
With flattened eagerness
Afraid of the icy stare and
Knife stab of judgment.
Eventually, I did not need the snap
Of the impatient voice to turn
My existence into shadows.
I simply ceased being as I was before,
So changed, that I didn’t remember it was not me
That turned away from my beams of light.
But it is now me who wears the burden
Of the inwardly turned eye
That points out my transgressions
So that I cannot savor the brightness
Of my own perfect recipe.