Cooking is worth the mess.  
The spices, the sauces, the sticky spoons.  
The bowls, the pots, the empty plastic wrappers.  
Fragments of me scattered across the floor.  
Dreams hiding in the crevices, fears lingering at the base.  

Maybe I’m worth the mess, too.  
I am the recipe, a dish still in progress,  
A symphony coming together, no matter the excess.
It’s in the mess that flavors are born,  
Sweetness pulled from bitterness.  
Each scrape of the spoon, each flick of the wrist,  
A step closer to something whole.  
Each spill tells a story, every stain leaves a mark.
And like the meal simmered slow,  
From inedible to flavorful, I, too, can glow.  

As I clean the stubborn flour clinging to the shelf,  
I remind myself—the meal is worth the mess.
This beautiful, messy, imperfect process—  
It’s proof that I, too, am worth the mess.