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.