Broken Things
Sunday, August 04, 2013
I have always been attracted to broken things. When I was a
girl I would buy china dolls with cracked faces and stuffed bears with rips in
their seams. I felt sorry for them because I knew if I didn’t do something,
they would most likely end up in the rubbish bin. So I took them home with me.
Things that are broken are not as strong as they are
intended to be. The damage incurred at the breaking point is a weak spot in the
overall construction of the item. Vulnerable, broken things need protection in
order to continue working in whatever capacity they should be working in.
I think a lot of brokenness.
It’s many forms- wear and tear. Slow rubbings that leave raw
spots. Violent rippings that leave a jagged edge.
I don’t think brokenness is pretty.
It wobbles and lurches and goes about more slowly than its
fully functional counterparts.
I am broken and in need of protection. I have weak spots and
some parts of me are as fragile as glass.
I go about business slowly, like a sloth, one arm in front of the other pulling me towards my destination.
I go about business slowly, like a sloth, one arm in front of the other pulling me towards my destination.
Lately I have begun contemplating all of my broken
parts. The broken parts of me that I try
to hide- the parts that are covered over with a glossy shine and that nobody
sees. My sympathetic parts are all jagged and torn. My empathetic parts as
well.
My broken insides with missing parts. My broken outside with
a long, smiling scar that stretches hip to hip.
It seems that I am compiled of all types of broken elements.
I short circuit.
I fail to launch.
I am not beauty from ashes today, but the dust left behind.
I will keep broken things
Sacred in their splits
I will keep broken things
I will swallow them whole
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