The House

Zara Ní Shuilleabhain

Poetry

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my brain is one hundred percent broken.
unfixable.
but,
‘it might go away by itself’.
or so the plumber says.
i called the plumber in last week,
my eyes seemed to have sprung a leak.
but he was right,
it went away.
but i had to call him back.
because even though my eyes weren’t leaking, 
the central heating in my heart was busted.
he told me 
‘it might go away by itself’.
he was right.
it’s gone.
i’m numb now.
i called a carpenter.
because my brain felt stiff and unstable.
he told me it was unhinged.
i called a gardener.
to fix the unruly outside.
my soul’s cage.
he told me what needed to be fixed.
he told me what was wrong.
i’m only broken inside now.
the garden looks great.
sure inside is unclean, and dishes are stacking up, and it’s cold and slowly filling up with water to
drown its inhabitants.
but that’s okay.
i don’t invite many inside anyway.

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