I Am Not a Bottle


People view me as a bottle.
I mean like one of those glass bottles, the old-fashioned kind that’s got Coca-Cola in it.
I’m one of those, but blank. No labels on the outside, no soda pop on the inside.
Just a bottle.
But then the factory labels me and gives me a name, the name identical to all the others, designing the labels and colors just exactly how they want them to make me pretty and perfect and ordinary and plain.
Then they stuff me and fill me up, up, up with cola to the very brim, then seal me shut, trapping inside the very thing they filled me with.
You can even see a reflection of what I’m supposed to be in the polished glass of the bottle - the bottle that’s being sent to who knows where for someone else to consume, to make their own.
Then I get shaken.
There are bubbles, too many to contain so I erupt and explode and create a mess everywhere and now look what I’ve done.
I am not a bottle.
I may have had a cap, but that’s been popped off.
I may have had cola, but now it’s dispersed.
I may have had labels, but they’ve been torn off.
I may have been a bottle, but now I’m broken.
Now I’m just a heap of delicate, glass shards, catching the light the way I was meant to and reflecting it back into the world.

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