Breakable

I bought a white porcelain dish.

A dollar. The thrift store

had it marked down

because of the chip on the rim.

That's all it took.

One small break and suddenly

it was disposable.

I use it now for coins.

Paper clips. Small things.

The chip catches light.

A white scar on white glaze.

I keep wondering about the person

who owned it before me.

Did they chip it and keep it?

Did they chip it and decide

that was the end?

Did someone else break it

and that was enough

to throw it away?

I've had it a week.

It holds what I give it—

the change in my pockets,

the office supplies I can't quite organize.

The functionality hasn't changed.

But something about the break

made it less valuable

to whoever had it first.

Not to me.

I don't know why I'm drawn

to damaged things.

But I keep buying them.

Maybe I'm rescuing them.

Maybe I'm just seeing myself

in the damage.

The porcelain knows this.

The chip knows.

The light keeps catching the scar.