I hated my life.
I hated my house.
Always telling my mom that it sucked.
So we moved.
After twelve years we moved.
The next day,
our old house burned down,
and I cried.
My mom was appalled.
"Why are you so upset?
I thought you hated that place."
I only cried harder
because I did hate it.
But nobody understood
the sentimental value.
My childhood was there.
That's where I climbed my first tree.
Where I kissed my first boyfriend.
Where I wrote my first poem.
So I cried,
and nobody understood
that it was for the sentimental value.