broken object

The "quiet rebel" on the shelf represents the beauty of staying together despite an "impac

The ceramic lip is jagged now,

a lightning bolt of white against the black,

where the handle snapped and left a scar

that no amount of glue could ever hide.

It sits among the polished and the whole,

a quiet rebel on the highest shelf,

holding nothing but the dusty weight

of the morning when it fell.

To some, it is a failure of its form,

a vessel that can no longer hold the heat

or carry water to a thirsty mouth.

They see the fracture as a finishing line,

a reason for the bin, a clutter kept.

But there is a history in the hairline cracks,

a map of days that were lived too fast,

and a beauty in the way it stayed together

even when the impact said it shouldn't.

I keep it for the way the light hits the edges,

sharp and silver in the afternoon,

reminding me that things can lose their use

without ever losing their worth.

It is broken, yes, but it is also mine,

and some things are better kept in pieces

than surrendered to the hollow of the trash.