Broken things tell their history
in cracks adorning their surfaces.
Fissures showing scars of domestic abuse,
right swings from drunk husbands,
glass windows resisting
hate, a brick wrapped in cloth
“Go back to Colombia, narcos,”
fist-shaped holes in drywall
from a late night call turned
worst night of your life.
Broken people share their stories
through the cracks worn
under their skin.
Pain permeating through
old wounds when the
sky is overcast, sharp
jolts of memory etched
in dislocated shoulders,
clenched fists too sore to close,
accidents that should have killed you.
Broken things have been satiated,
given purpose, used for someone’s
interest, then discarded, thrown
away onto mountains formed
Broken people are survivors,
their fractures are battle scars,
badges soldered on their skin.
Tossed aside, they rose from ashes
and found new purpose.
Those who have never felt their heart break,
or had to apply pressure on a blood,
or were bullied into submission,
or were mentally abused
can never unlock their power to heal.
never took away