#p...

I'm like that one plastic imitation of a china plate in the corner of the charity shop.

I'm not broken, but I'm worn down as hell. And it's not like anyone will buy. I'm clearly fake, and no one would care for a dirty scratched plate like me. I'm not safe to eat from, I don't look nice, I wouldn't fit any collection, I would barely pass for a plate. So damaged and rendered useless that I may as well be broken, but I'm not. Everyone knows I'm not. At that point, they'd rather a plate completely in pieces than a cheap imitation that would do nothing but tear at the tablecover, or injure the hands that handle it. They say I'm just well loved, but I know.

My life is already over. And it barely even started yet.

I get a glance or two from young children, still too innocent to understand that I only bring trouble and pain. "We can buy that one!" But they're met with "We can find better, come on. That one's ruined."

And it's true. So why am I kept on the shelves? Why am I still here only to be met with refusal day after day, and discomfort night after night?

Because no one dares to break something they're afraid would hurt them.

Because no one dares repurpose something that has no purpose.

Because no one likes a cheap plastic circle, pretending to be something it's not, even if that something is what is truly wanted.

Because no one sees anything remarkable in a plate that's scratched and fallen.

Because no one wants to hear the story of a well loved plate such as I.

Because everyone believes the phrase "ignorance is bliss", when it comes to something like me.

After all, something worn down has less uses than something new, no matter the cost. Right?

And you may pity the emotion I convey for a second. You may look upon the little lump of left, lonely, longing, lifeless plastic on the shelf collecting dust as company and think. "The poor plate..." But it's only for a moment. You will get on with life, you will forget. That, of course, is not a particularly bad thing. If you carried the sorrows of all, then you yourself would never achieve a state of joy.

I do not blame those who ignore me, or forget me, or wish upon me a better life while they get back to theirs. For they must live a life of their own.

I do not blame the broken plates, who occasionally gain the attention they deserve, while others similar to them are forgotten like I am. For they are in a worse situation than mine, and I cannot make any judgement.

I do blame, however, the sickly honey and sugar coating they give to words surrounding my name and worth. The idea that there is no problem whatsoever.

The lady by the counter doesn't believe in me any more than you do.

They may need the extra buck, I, again, am in no place to judge.

But the existence, not life, I lead is weary and not quite yet broken.

Though I'm afraid I'll find, I drift to the back. Voluntarily making space for the others, purely to rot. Purely to find there is no true meaning, or gain from how I go on. Perhaps it's not so much a fear, as an idea I push down. I do not suffer as much as others. I should not wish for this over trivial matters.

But plastic lives on for many, many years. Plastic does not decompose. Plastic stays there. Ever somewhere around the corner. Always somewhere, always nowhere.

Nowhere.

No wear.

If only that had been something I knew or remembered.

I do not remember the way I got this wear. I remember it was not meant to make me suffer this way.

Maybe I truly was "well-loved".

Maybe being loved wasn't such a good thing.

Maybe one plastic imitation of a china plate in the corner of the charity shop isn't deserving of anything.

Maybe one plastic imitation of a china plate in the corner of the charity shop is a way overstated and overplayed case.

One plastic imitation of a china plate in the corner of the charity shop.