The Empty Plate

She sat there for a very long time. 

She was polite and still.

She didn’t ask for much. 

She always paid the bill.

She would watch everyone eat 

their gourmet meals.

Her stomach would growl 

and turn in despair,

wishing it was her.

Wishing she was enjoy 

that meal too.

But instead of enjoying it when it came, 

she would give it away.

She would see someone else not having enough, 

and she couldn’t bear not to share.

She even fed those who had plenty, 

who had plates filled so high

 it was already too much.

But she gave it to them anyway,

because she feared otherwise 

she wouldn’t be enough.

She did this for years and for years, 

and she said nothing.

If she ever felt anger come up, 

she would shove it back down.

If she felt a tear form in her eye, 

she told herself,

Don’t be a clown.

Everything negative 

that would fill her heart,

she would shallow it down 

and fill her stomach.

She told herself,

Don’t be so petty.

She felt guilty.

So filled with guilt 

and shame.

Hoping that someone 

may save her one day.

She hoped that someone

would see her.

See all the pain.

Her empty plate 

and her empty tummy.

She hoped they would come to her, 

sit down at her table,

and share.

That they would feed her

like she once did.

That she wouldn’t have to ask.

She wouldn’t have to beg.

They would simply see that she was in need,

and they would be there for her, 

indeed.

The funny thing is…

There probably once was a man 

who sat at her table.

He saw her.

And he knew.

He saw how hungry she was.

How alone.

How frail.

So he offered what he had.

It was only a crumb.

But she couldn’t bear to take it.

So she said,

No, thank you.

And he walked away.

And so she sits there…

waiting for another day.