I stare at the old transparent glass. Its weary now.

I stare at the old transparent glass. Its weary now.
Rough areas that had become stained by yellow oil, not even soap can clean and make anew.

I wait for it to be broken by someone else, so the blame is pointed not to me.

I want a new glass. Shiny and new.

I stare at the old transparent glass. It cries at me. It demands better, and gentler hands.
I laugh at it; harshly scrubbing its surface, trying to remove the impurities, because all the other glass, I’ve broken; it’s the only thing I have.

I just want a new glass, easier to handle, easier for drinking.

It just wants a better dishwasher. One that won’t break it and blame the slippery soap or the running water.

We both just wanted better.

My feet are prickled by the broken glass I swept under the rug. I pretend they were broken by someone else; I didn’t bother to even spare a look. I sweep them further down under, and try to blame it on my mother who also wish for better dishes. Nobody is innocent in this home. Everyone had broken something that is glass, even the dog.

The glass in my hand remains unbroken, placed on the moldy cabinet where it belongs, along with other dishes I wish were broken by someone else. They all weep. Wishing for gentler, and kinder hands. While I wish for a new transparent glass.