I have held old things, in my hands.
I have held old things, broken things, disaster things, and clutched them close to my chest and inhaled them.
I have swallowed tornados, holding my chest to keep them in while they bang about my insides and take no prisoners.
I have invited them in, and so they keep coming, the disasters looking for a comfortable place to flourish and grow.
They put down roots, they plant gardens.
They make tea in the darkness and I can feel the steam rising.
They get hungry and they gnaw at the good things I have barricaded, attempting to shield them from all the disasters I welcome in.
I apologize to the mirror, fragmented as it is.
I apologize to the whole and the complete and to the things that require constant fixing.
I have held on to the old things, the broken things, because I broke them.