What I Choose

I have plates in the cabinet.

New ones.

Unbroken.

I pick the chipped one.

The chip is sharp.

I feel it against my mouth

every time I eat,

a small reminder

that I chose this,

chose the broken thing,

chose the honest damage

over the lie of replacement.

Food tastes the same on broken plates.

It sits the same.

Fills the same space.

But something in choosing it

means something

I can't quite name.

I scrape food onto it.

Eat.

Run my tongue

along the sharp edge

like I'm testing

whether I actually

deserve better.

I don't think about this.

Or I think about it constantly.

It's hard to tell

the difference anymore.

Every day I choose it again.

Every day it's still broken.

Every day I eat

off the damage

without fixing anything,

without pretending

that replacement

is the same as healing.