I’m made of ceramic or white porcelain
and my arms are string
ragdoll physics
dragged off the table and smashed into pieces

swept up into a dustpan
carried carefully across the kitchen
around the other pile of dust cereal and thin strips
of onion skin

dumped into the garbage can
the smell makes what used to
be me gag
but I can’t gag anymore

it would be dark when the lid closed
if I had eyes to see
and I would be scared
if I were whole

but broken
pieces of me jumbled like this
scared isn’t important not as
important as nothing

the nothing that pieces of a
ceramic or white porcelain man
with string arms
couldn’t possibly feel

the cliché garbage feels my pain
the banana peels egg shells coffee grounds
as clichés they are nothing as well
simply stand ins for reality

the extras waiting patiently
with me waiting for
something not made of ceramic or white porcelain to show up
something that won’t break from a fall

Ryan Evans is a writer from Seattle, Washington and has been published in small literary journals around the United States. Check out more of his work here.