I tried to make a home out of you. A shack with potential. See, I never needed a lot of space. A little character, a lot of fixing. I don’t mind. I saw your potential. I imagined your stained glasses and sooted walls sparkling clean. I saw that dingy attic filled with garbage as a treasure chest ripe for my picking. Each room held a piece of my heart. It was magic. Now it’s a tragedy. Now it’s raggedy. Now I know potential is worthless when it’s not lived up to. I am grateful for the lesson but I don’t have time to backtrack and pick up the pieces. I know I offered to clean you up, you didn’t ask but could you please be more mindful of my time ? Not every poem has to fit an elongated form or rhyme the same way not every home needs a tenant. Now that I’ve spent time in it, I won’t undo what I left… but it’s time for me to leave the broken home.