The lacquered lie

I picked it up, the bowl, a lie wrapped in shine,

dark red lacquer like blood too glossy to trust.

Under flickering light, the rim betrayed its gloss—

a chip so small it caught my finger like a trap.

Perfect from across the room, but close—it cracked,

a sudden betrayal hidden beneath that wet glaze.

The lacquer promises smooth, a polished face,

but the crack waits, patient, under the varnish.

And I held it anyway,

a crooked trust pressed against my palm,

wondering how beauty can cheat so well,

till even the shine feels like a bruise.