you knocked on my door,
for i was your home.
the one you grew up in,
but grew out of.
you drank lemonade
on the porch of me,
hung christmas lights
on my gutters,
making the ugliest parts shine
just once a year.
but you never did plant a tree
to give me shade
or put on a new layer of paint
to patch me up.
you did nothing so permanent,
only putting band-aids
on my leaky pipes.
soon enough,
my basement was flooding,
my front door creaking,
and stairs falling through.
you knew i was a fixer upper,
but why fix me up
when you can break me down.
now my halls are littered with brown boxes,
and your key lay on the counter.
"it's a buyer's market," you had said,
before selling me for less than i was worth.

somewhere between hell and home

you sit in your car

with the windows open

your fingers touch the clouds
you show your smile to the sky,

one that beats even the shine of the sun 

you drive over grass, rubble, 
and mountains

because nothing could ever break you

like you broke me.

somewhere nearer to hell than home

ive hit every red light and pothole

my brakes have been cut

my paint job chipped

my mirrors shattered
.
some days I stick my thumb out

hoping to ride in someone else’s car

just for a while,

but it’s never long enough
to forget the damages,

the ones I got 
when we crashed.

i am hell and you were my home,

my steering wheel and ignition.

many miles have passed,

since i dropped you off.
it was the least i could do

to set your demons free.

now you drive on your own
and 
i trip over your rubble because

i cannot reach the clouds,

losing my fragile pieces

every time you break me down.