She stands at the counter,
flour dusting her fingertips,
cinnamon curling through the air like a whisper
she’s afraid to speak aloud.
A pinch of salt, a dash of thyme—
she throws them in like she’s casting a spell,
but nothing ever turns out right.
Too much heat, not enough heart,
the flavors never fold into each other,
never blend the way they should.
In her mind, another bowl waits—
one no one can see.
She tosses in “too much,” packs in “not enough,”
folds in “too loud” like stiff egg whites,
sifts in “too big” until it settles in the cracks.
No recipe, no measurements, just
a mess she can never quite fix.
She walks through the grocery store
like a stranger in a foreign place,
staring at shelves lined with things
she doesn’t know how to use.
Aisles stretch too wide, labels blur,
and the pressure knots in her stomach
until she turns around, empty-handed.
She just won’t go next time.
She can bake, though.
She knows the way sugar melts into butter,
how vanilla warms a room,
how patience turns batter to gold.
But sweets feel like a confession,
like proof.
So she says she can’t.
Pretends her hands are clumsy,
her cakes always sink.
Shrinks behind the lie
because it’s easier than the truth.
She just wishes she could cook.
Wishes she could make something people need.
Wishes she didn’t feel like a failed recipe.
