#repairs
Will you fix the leak behind the wall?
The one that makes water seep out,
and run down to the floor in puddles.
The other men couldn’t do it.
Will you fix the crack in the foundation
before the house tilts to one side?
I’d like to stay upright a bit longer.
Will you replace the windows,
so I can see outside clearly?
I think that it’s sunny,
but it looks hazy from in here.
Will you plant a garden for me,
of roses and lilies,
and cucumbers and tomatoes,
ripe and firm,
begging me to eat them.
The other men couldn’t do it.
But I think that you can.
I can see that you are skilled
as a handyman.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 12:28 AM UTC
You told me I broke you
That you fell apart
Without me you were wreckage
Broken bits of a heart
And then you moved on
You found some new parts
Started making the repairs
Built your own heart
Tell me is it wonderful
To be whole again
The guilt has destroyed me
Long after you didn't
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 1:00 PM UTC
It might delight me to have you,
if we weren’t damaged goods,
but I know I haven’t the foggiest
how two broken people are meant
to mend together;
we haven’t the hands to glue.
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 10:29 PM UTC
gratefulness is the gold fillings
in your cracked porcelain skin
recognition of your brokenness--
not the brokenness itself--
is the beauty in imperfection.
white ripples across your surface become
golden seams. the tectonic design is
a topographical map of scars and stitches;
the adherence of
traits that don't otherwise connect.
"you are beautiful," he tells you as
he kisses each mark softly,
his lips tracing a winding path through
your gardens.
it is not his words that make it so
but they settle just the same
reminding you that it’s not the cracks
that make you glitter
but the gold with which you fill them—
forgiveness
grace
and love.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
It was never my intention to leave you standing outside.
I never heard a knock on the door, an unintentional contradiction of the welcome mat beneath anxious feet.
Though small, the hall extends to a larger room. Surrounded by two more rooms across from each other. Fair in size.
Prints of bare feet seep through thin socks;
The sharpness of your gaze. Cluttered in thought.
Remnants of the last place you stood.
Admiring now replaced siding.
The last time your back pressed against the side of the house, broken promises chipped off.
Weathered.
Nails pulled out and replaced with screws. An extra layer of tar paper.
You promised you'd return but never came back,
The decor of your essence repainted with a light tan, border still to be sanded down and nailed against fresh paint.
Moving from the room at the end of the hall,
Walking toward the front door then forgetting what I was going to do
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 2:08 AM UTC