she is not an electrician.
her fingers are not quite
deft enough to reconfigure
the tangled knots of her
disconnected interwirings,
to replace the blown fuses
and jaded circuit breakers,
the once insistent glare
of her scintillating naivety
faltering with her every
fumbling attempt, only
feverish flickerings that
are almost worse than
just sitting still and quiet
in the dark.

she is not a mechanic.
even with both her arms
– all the way up to the
elbows – and the gap
down between her lungs
slicked with the same
choking oil and grease, she
has no knowledge of filters
or pistons, dripping with
the leakings of half-dead
batteries, all of it pushing
up under fingernails and
clogging in ventricles,
confirming her suspicion
that there are no leftover
pieces she can force in to
make her engine run right.

she is not a contractor.
the house that has built
out around her is far too
big now, the rooms scraped
clean and emptied, with
the exception of mismatching
puzzle pieces that have been
left behind by pictures that
found somewhere a bit more
preferrable to be finished, and
her tired eyes can not find
exactly where it all has gone,
and how to refurnish such
an abundance of negative
space, or how to remodel
the insides of her undecorated
walls to better suit the possibility
of whoever might be the
next to try and break in.

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