The French Pastries
Bethan Ellis
We aren’t the cake in the window, all frosted and straight,
We’re the one that’s a little bit lopsided on the plate.
Forget the “pretty pink” icing or the perfect, tiny crumb,
We’re the flour-dusted explosion when the weekend has begun.
A mixture of princesses and the “fashion-clueless” crew,
Mixing neon sprinkles into a muddy-brown stew.
We’re the backpacks worn upside-down, just to see if they’ll stay,
The heavy, overstuffed handbags that break halfway through the day.
Some of us are the yeast, rising up with a scream,
Shouting out to the world to go follow its dream.
And some are the slow-melt chocolate, working quiet and deep,
Changing the world in the secrets we keep.
People look down on the mess, on the noise, and the grit,
But they don’t see the magic in the middle of it.
We’re the lumpy batter that tastes better than the prize,
With a fizzing energy they can’t see with their eyes.
We’re the weirdos, the loud ones, the ones they don’t get,
The boldest, craziest twelve-person batch you’ve seen yet.
We don’t care if we’re different, if we’re messy or loud,
In this kitchen of friendship, we’re unfiltered and proud.
Because whether we’re screaming or standing quite still,
If one of us can’t finish the recipe…the rest of us will.