They will tell you that you are broken

With words laced in remorse and guilt as if being broken

were somehow a fate to be undesired

I cannot point blame when believe them,

If you understand the state of brokenness to only mean suffering

But what can we say

Of those that can no longer hold up under the oppression of the patriarchy

Those that are fragile enough to break

While being forced into industrial machines of labor

designed to conform all matter into products

for mass consumption

Those that instead shatter into pieces,

Or bend in unintended places

When categorized into neat boxes and check marks

Those whose parts no longer fit the outdated design  

What can we say of those thrown and discarded off the production line

Then gathered and shipped to be recycled

Sent out into the ocean, in the middle of nowhere

On an island

With all the others

deemed broken or defective  

The unfinished products never able to comply

with those that bend in ways they were never meant to bend

With those whose parts have been labeled

and deemed unfit for mass consumption

What are we to say of a world

where machines, doctors, psychiatrists or parents

Are constantly trying to repair us all back into standard production and put us back on the shelves

Maybe, the point isn’t always to avoid being broken

Maybe, there is no shame in being discarded by a system that never had our best interests in mind

Maybe its better out here.

Together, alone on this island

Existing and surviving as resiliently scientific proof

That maybe,

Just maybe,

It is the machine that is broken

And Not us.