Circle of Plastic

I was born in heat, poured into a mold, and became a clear plastic bottle—new, smooth, ready. My purpose was water. Cool, sweet water that gave me weight and meaning. A human chose me. “Perfect for the gym,” they said, and I felt proud. I lived fast—car rides, workouts, sunshine. Emptied, refilled, useful. Then I was tossed. Not recycled, but buried. In darkness, time wore me down until I cracked and weakened. I melted again, reshaped into something new: a park bench. Children climbed on me. Lovers carved their names. I held stories until age and weather broke me once more. This time I was shredded, reborn as fleece—a blue jacket warming a small human. But I shed. Tiny pieces of me slipped into water, into rivers, into oceans. Now I drift as a speck in the currents. Fish eat me. Birds mistake me for food. I am no longer useful—I am a warning. Will I be reborn again? I hope so. Or I may remain here, a reminder of the choices humans make, and the cost of forgetting where things end.