The Long Hard Winter/Broken Plate

Testo:

© Grathy
I know I have a chip. I remember when you washed me too quickly after you had that dinner party. You were angry with your guests and took it out on me.

You hit me on the edge of the countertop and a part of me went flying, The piece was quickly discarded and tossed into the trash. You could’ve thrown me away right then, but you didn’t, preferring to hide your anger by shoving me aside.

I didn’t complain with that bruise. I took it in stride, when you hid me in the cupboard, pointing my chip to the wall so nobody would see.

Gradually your newer plates piled on top of me, and I suffered with the weight of them. They laughed at me, knowing that they were now preferred because they were newer, shinier, and hadn’t been used.

Every day, you would take them out from their smooth shelves, and proudly place them on the table. They would laugh and point at me when they came back home, making fun of my chip. They got to play at the parties. I didn’t. I was alone in the dark.

I suffered in silence, I couldn’t help my blemish. After all you did it to me. You’re the one who should be ashamed, the one who handled me badly, not looking where you were going, and then just shoving me back into the black like it never happened.

But it did happen, and now I wear the scars of that forceful moment, when you thought you could get away with it, hoping nobody would notice. But I notice. I live with my scar every day. I turn my face to the wall in shame.

I now I have to try harder to fit in. I have to pretend that I feel still feel useful. But everyday I look at their round happy faces and I know I’m not the same. I am damaged through no fault of my own.

But their days will come. These new plates will have their moments. You might drop one of them, its shiny smile shattering all over the floor. You will say it’s an innocent accident, that you weren’t looking, that you weren’t paying attention. That it will never happen again. But it will.

Another one might crack from the heat of your hot suds, or your drunken carelessness. Then I will have siblings who finally look like me. Tired of trying, tired of apologizing for their looks, now broken, chipped, and eventually forgotten.