We live in such a disposable time,
throwing away and buying new,
in and out,
as easily as breathing.
Standing in the center of ourselves,
we move along from damaged things
before they can become
uncomfortable.
Before they make us think.
Make us work.
We live as if the loss is all we have,
and injuries can never be redeemed.
But damaged isn’t broken,
and the whispers of the wrecking world
are often easy lies,
for we are neither perfect-made nor
sinful born,
and sometimes worth is buried dark-earth deep.
It need not be our nature to destroy
what feels undone,
or put too much belief in all the permanence of hurt
when we can be the tinkers of our souls
and mend ourselves anew instead of
falling to the scrapheap of despair.
We do not need to be disposable;
it is only damage.
