I like the broken ones.

I like the things that aren’t quite perfect or maybe have outlived their original purpose. An envelope gets dyed and tucked into what used to be a book.  A wool sweater that’s now 10 sizes too small gets cut up and resewn. A leather purse that can’t be rehabbed gets torn apart and stitched into a notebook cover. No longer useless, now ready to be loved again.

But I’m especially drawn to the broken people. The ones with little cracks or maybe even great big pieces missing. The ones whose edges are rough, whose surfaces aren’t bright and shiny. The ones who have put their bits back in a different way, the ones with stories to tell.

They have things to say. Sometimes it takes a long time, sometimes never. I don’t mind. It means more when you finally get to hear them.

I know what it’s like to be the one whose edges are rough, whose pieces don’t quite go together right. I know what it means to find someone who is safe. Who is easy.

The collage of us is what makes it fascinating. A kaliedescope of scratches and gashes, some so deep you wonder if you’ll ever crawl out. The texture of your heart and skin and scars.

So to my people who are a crazy quilt of jagged stitches and silk and bare velvet, I see you. I know your worn spots and soft places that you hide away. And I love you anyway.



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