Poetry by Kat

Dont be a Hoarder

My mother would always tell me,
"Throw away your broken toys. Don't be a hoarder."
And I would cry as she took them, snapped in two, from my hands and threw them away.
I'd sit by the bin, looking into their chipped and scratched eyes.
Imagine them crying out for me, like a baby for their mother.
I wasn't hoarding. I saw their potential. A broken arm on one doll could be used as a Halloween prop. A missing eye on one Teddy could be fixed with an eyepatch and now he's a pirate.
My mother never got that, and threw them out regardless.
As I got older, I got better at keeping things, Wrappers from a candy,
Caps from a bottle,
Thread from a ripped jumper,
Junk to her; Treasure to me.
I'd store them in boxes under my bed, defend them from anyone who tried to throw them out. I'd glue them together to make pretty pictures, use old pieces of one toy to fix another like some sort of mad scientist. It was never hoarding. I always saw the potential. I always saw the worth in the 'rubbish'.

I hope someone sees the broken pieces of me and keeps them, I hope they see my worth.