unraveled

it's not the cats,
the boxes stacked,
the bundled paper bags,
or cardboard folded
and kept,
it's not the unswept
floors,
or broken
window, or the stains
and spills
on the rugs,
the parquet floors.
neither is it the one
room, with one light,
where she sleeps
and eats and carries
in her plate
and drink, or how
she never leaves
the house.
it's none of this.
it's something that began
when she was
a child, unseen now,
but forever broken.