All Our Broken Shit Still Works
All our broken shit still works
just needs a kick
or a kind touch
or a curse under your breath
when it squeals
The couch has springs that dig
like fingers through the fabric
every time you sit down
it groans a confession
of every nap and fight
The coffee table is a rescue from the curb
carved with initials that aren’t ours
stained with rings
from the beers we drank all night
The lamp leans to one side
like it’s asking for a break
shade held together with tape
and stubbornness
bulb buzzing
but refusing to die
If a magazine crew saw this place
they would call it a disaster
we call it proof
we made it this far
without learning how to lie
The car stalls twice on cold mornings
dashboard lit like a warning sign
held together with zip ties
and a prayer
We talk about trading it in
then remember every late-night drive
with the windows stuck half down
flicking ashes into the air
The phone is cracked across the face
a spiderweb from the time
it hit the wall
when panic made you feel small
Still it holds the photos of us
laughing in parking lots
and the texts saying “made it home”
that mean the most of all
Every ad screams upgrade
replace
toss it out if it squeaks or fails
but all this broken stuff
has seen our worst nights
and lived to tell the tales
I trust a chipped mug that stays
more than a brand-new shine that bails
Your jacket has a zipper
that sticks halfway
so you walk around half armored
half exposed
exactly like your chest
Your boots have soles worn thin
from pacing this city
plotting escape and return
putting the pavement to the test
Our friendship is stitched
from a thousand fights and apologies
from ghosting and calling
and sleeping on the floor
We thought we shattered it
that night we screamed unforgivable things
yet here we are
passing the remote
like we’re ready for more
One day something will finally die
the engine will cough a last time
the table leg will snap
the phone won’t wake up when you plead
We will stand there grieving like idiots
for objects nobody else would keep
eyes wet over plastic and need
But this isn’t about stuff
it’s about history
loyalty
the simple miracle of staying
when you could go
All our broken shit still works
because we did
barely
through the nights
when we couldn’t take another blow
When I look around this wreck of a room
and feel my lungs unclench
after a hard day of work
I know I am home
where all our broken shit
still works