Broken Things

I love,
Have loved,
Broken things.
All my life.

Cars.
Furniture.
Houses.
People.

My childhood family
Was
IS
A broken thing.

My father was definitely a broken thing.
My husband is, unfortunately, a broken thing.
I don’t know many people who aren’t broken
In some spectacular fashion.

The problem with broken is–
You can try to fix it,
But it’s expensive and
Doesn’t include a manual.

It’s hopeless.
The most difficult thing you will try to do.
Selfish.
Impossible.

We come home to houses full of broken things.
Plates, pictures, people.
Holes, hinges, hope.
We are in love with broken things.

Fix it all.
Climb the walls.
The most broken thing I’ve ever loved is
ME.

My whole life is a fixer-upper.
My parents were the one thing
I desperately wanted to fix
And never could.

So I spend the rest of my life trying to fix:
Stuff.
People.
The world.

I am broken.
The question is,
Do I love myself?
Sometimes.

I loved myself enough.
Because I’m still here.
I don’t have to fix anything.
I don’t.

 

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