I was a bin once -
humble,
holding,
here.
The world poured itself
into me.
Apple cores,
paper dreams,
love notes torn in haste.
Secrets sealed in wrappers.
The laughter of children
crumbed and tossed.
I took it all -
without question,
without pride,
without shame.
I was the end
of many beginnings.
Some saw me
and turned away -
wrinkled noses,
quickened steps.
But a few
placed things gently,
as if I mattered.
As if the act of discarding
could be kind.
Then came the day
they said I was full.
Too stained.
Too old.
Too used.
They replaced me
with something shinier,
sleeker,
silent.
I sat in the back alley,
forgotten.
Rain softened my rust,
and still,
I waited.
Not for trash -
but for purpose.
For someone
to see
the worth
in what once held
the weight
of the world.
I was once a bin.
And I still ache
to be useful again.
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