On the shelf

I'm sitting on the shelf. I was just put here. One minute I'm sitting on a well lit counter. The next I'm being whisked off my feet, flying through the air, not knowing if I would ever stop or if I wanted to. Well, I stopped all right. Right here on the shelf in front of the older cans that I can't quite see; the lights went out when the cupboard door slammed shut.
But I know things could be worse. I'm up front. I may be on the shelf, but I get looked at every time the door swings open. When my eyes adjust to the light again, I can see the others in rows dissapearing into the blackness. Rusted souls, covered in dust, labels drooping, weeping. But I gather no rust. I am desired. When they are hungry, the come looking to me.
The door opens but instead of being ushered into the world beyond, my view is blocked with another, an example of perfection. No dents to mar the exterior. Large and shining, I can't see the door swinging shut until we are all bathed in darkness.
I'm sitting on the shelf. I am behind rows and stacks and piles. I exist, but only to myself. My sight is dimming from the thin layer of dust collecting, my joints are sore from the oxidation. I am on the shelf, and I have been forgotten.