After a great catastrophe hits home, like a fire or a tornado, you search through the wreckage to find pieces that can still be saved.

If anything is salvageable, you might as well take it. This was your home after all.

Finding old pictures, supplies, things of sentimental value, anything that reminds you of home before it was destroyed.

So what if your home is built upon people?

When catastrophe strikes, people might run away, give up, and sometimes they die. Not always, but sometimes they will.

I was part of the wreckage of my home made of people.
But I was also the disaster that tore it down.

Leaving people in pain, with traumatic break downs, panic attacks, and a lesson in language only known as ******.

Nobody died.

People were saved. I know of three in particular who found each other and survived.

But it left two others broken apart, one confused, and one completely homeless.

And as for me...

I survived like the rest. But unlike most of them, I didn't recover.
They didn't bother to search through the damaged home to find me.
There was no monetary value to my life, no point, no sentimental value to them.

And I just lay there to this day.

And to the person I hurt most...

You know who you are...

You left me in that home, the one you invited me into and cared for me as if I was family and now...

I'm here.

Buried under the catastrophe.

And I'm sorry I tore the house down.

I'm sorry I wasn't worth going back to the house to find and salvage.

I'm sorry I wasn't worth saving.