The pot was cracked on the bottom
by usuallycomes
· 07/03/2026
Published 07/03/2026 20:41
The pot was cracked on the bottom.
She'd brought homemade pasta.
It came in terra cotta,
wrapped in foil.
When she unwrapped it,
the crack was obvious.
A line running through the rust-colored clay.
She didn't say anything.
No one else said anything.
The pasta was still warm.
It was still good.
This is what we do—
we bring broken things
and pretend they're whole.
We make beautiful things
in vessels that are already failing.
The crack meant
it would break soon.
The crack meant
the pot was temporary.
The crack meant
everything was temporary.
But the pasta was still warm.
And it was still good.
And we ate it
like the pot wasn't coming apart
like the vessel didn't matter
like only the inside mattered.
I've been like that pot.
Cracked. Still functioning.
Still holding what I was meant to hold.
Still warm on the inside.
But I knew it was coming.
The break. The end.
The moment when the crack
would spread and I would
finally fall apart.
Everyone knew it too.
No one said anything.