I grew up a baker
whose cakes were never enough.

I poured love, time, heart
into every layer,
folding hope like sugar
and waiting
just for a crumb in return.

Sometimes my cakes were rejected.
No one noticed the care in every rise,
the sweetness I had folded
into each delicate layer.

I became a perfectionist,
a people pleaser,
baking bigger, sweeter cakes
hoping
finally
they would be enough.

But often
I offered pastries
to mouths craving pizza.

Eventually, I stopped baking for others.
I started crafting my own dessert,
my own flavor.

Sometimes sweet,
sometimes bitter,
but always mine.
And I am the only one
who truly savors it.

But I am learning—
love is not perfect cakes,
nor matching sweetness exactly.

I give my sweetness
to those whose desserts
are more bitter than mine,
while savoring my own bitter without
expecting sugar in return.

I fold care into theirs,
while cherishing mine.
I honor my flavors,
appreciate theirs,
give and receive without fear.

And I trust
that someone
who truly cares
will savor
even the bitter
alongside the sweet.