Broken Things



My mother is a fixer.
She takes old things
and wants to make them
new again.
Houses and
cars and
even clothes,
old things become
something new again.

If she finishes.

She almost never does.
There are houses
and garages
and storage units
packed with beautifully broken things.

Just like her.
Just like me

I wonder if this is why
I am broken,
why I like to fix things,
to find the lovely in the lost,
the truth in the twisted.
She sends me gifts
of half-made blankets
and puzzles with missing pieces.

Maybe she’s just a little crazy…like me.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been whole
but you stitched me up,
threading together my heart
with your own flesh and blood.
Even when you were in pieces,
addiction clouding your self-worth,
eroding your light
until you believed I didn’t need you.

I like broken things,
broken people.
There’s a certain majesty
to watching them transform,
to blossom and morph
into something beautiful,
something very few recognized
under all the grime
and fear
and shattered pieces.


7 thoughts on “Broken Things

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