You can fill the plate or you can empty it. It’s up to you.
Is it all merely a matter of perspective? You can fill it with nourishment and enrichment heaping upon it lashings of faith and fat sweet dollops of encouragement. You can fill it with the burdening residue of your own failing self worth in tatty proverbial suitcases and your personal rejected luggage. You can empty it through the tender soothsay of reassurance as the unwavering unconditionally of your love eats through their fears. You can empty it with the fiery malice of discontent as you glutton upon their confidence and beauty leaving nothing but smears of who they were and who they could have been.
The plate can break yet be repaired, a little weaker and not as pretty.
It’s fragility can be ignored by its temerity as it’s broken again and again changing its shape, editing its design. It’s resilience is both captivating and terrifying. Piece by piece, chip by chip until it’s unrecognisable. Until it’s irreparable.
Sometimes I’m the plate.
Sometimes I’m the hand that throws it.
Rewriting the autobiographies of our souls with glue.
Kneeling on the shards.