Porcelain pl(f)ate

I contemplate my self worth and try to value it like the objects I see,
Maybe it will compare to one of my surroundings
Perhaps the garbage can, or the sharpness of the glass table
Maybe a dirty pillow or a burnt out candle

But those are just objects, and I seem to be me
So what in the world am I doing staring up at the tree?
But they are way taller, colors far more bright
I envy these nouns that swarm my sight

I now wish to be something different, the possibles growing in my eyes
Because all I do is look at the reflection with the heaviest despise
I sit there eating my food, circling my bites
I take a look underneath, peaking at the white;
A plate.
I stare back at the flat surface as if it is mocking my face
Because my skin is not porcelain
And definitely not as bright

The dish loved by all
It is used multiple times a day
Acknowledged; cared for
At least it is clean, even after all the food is scraped away
It is dried and patted, stored in the cupboard
Never have I ever experienced as much care than a product birthed from cardboard

The edges are smooth, polished to perfection
The beautiful designs and colors on the edges
Even they appear more elegant than me,
The perfectly manufactured markings a better sight to see

At what point is how I view myself so low that I think of me no better than a plate?
But perhaps we aren’t so different,
You just have to wait

Because once it gets one small crack,
that’s when it joins me in the trash

I will hug the broken pieces until they cut me
Our differences bonding into pain
Because I am also a plate,
My figurative understanding swallowing it whole
I’ve been battered, bruised, scratched with the biggest collection of knives
I’ve sat in the back of the shelf for 10 months this time,
Each use getting shorter
The dust collecting in my scars and the dried up food that was never cleaned away;
An analogy to my stretch marks and red lumpy shoulders

You can see the gray scratches of pain
From the fork that looks like it has teeth
You would think I could stand it,
The sharp to my weak
But this isn’t the first monster to eat away on me
And definitely not the last
The only swirly engravings the ones from my past
I am also left with bumpy paint that makes me want to shout
I eye the newest collection in front of me,

Knowing I’m never getting out