Handled
They like me best when I’m still.
Posed beneath forgiving light,
spine obedient,
mouth closed.
Something hollow,
to be useful.
Not for water,
but for want:
their words, their hands,
their weight.
They leave themselves in me
like confession.
They call me elegant,
delicate,
tastefully restrained,
as if I agreed
to be contained.
Touch me wrong, I splinter.
Touch me right,
and you won’t see the fractures
until you bleed.
I’m not porcelain.
I’m tempered quiet,
the heat that didn’t escape,
glossed over:
cracks painted shut
so no one calls it damage.
They say I’m fragile,
but I remember the kiln.
I remember burning.
I remember
who lit the match.
So thank you
for setting me on display,
for calling it love
when what you meant
was ownership.
Once, I thought being chosen
meant being seen.
Now I know it only means
being handled.
And when they walk away,
I stay shining,
empty,
waiting to be filled
again.
Posted Oct 9, 2025, 10:58 AM UTC