I recently read this poem.

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.

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