my home is not broken.
a little rough around edges, yes, misshapen with love.
half-baked with the tardiness of doing things that
require too much time minutes before they are due.
my home is not raw.
deconstructed, slightly, intended and executed.
it is strewn with the calm objective that
puts too much on a plate requiring so little.
my home is not disorderly.
nicknamed, with care, a blunder.
held in its straying gaze, loving gaze that
one steady beat of too many hearts in a space meant for none.
my home is not starved.
lacking, accidentally, the odd caress.
an occasional scuffle, the cracks in these walls,
the upsetting-downsetting of the temperature in this
three-quarters open, one-quarter closed, brick-to-brick
building. my home is not broken. my home is held with glue
of tears and labour and sacrifice and guilt.
my home is not broken. we had it repainted last week.
By Yuvana Sahi
Image credits: Vimola Károly/ Fortepan