The pale blue plate leans uneven in the rack

The pale blue plate leans uneven in the rack,

a jagged smile chipped at the rim.

I scrub away last night’s coffee rings,

feel the crack catch under my finger,

sharp like an old secret.

It’s the only plate I trust not to disappear,

a quiet witness to burned toast and midnight eggs,

a place that holds more than food—

a place where fractures don’t mean the end,

and hunger is still a thing to face,

stubborn, raw, and real.