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.