Sunk Cost

I carried the bag to the thrift store bin,

a heavy plastic weight against my shin.

Inside, the brushes were stiff and the canvas was bare,

proof of a passion that was never really there.

I picked up a tube of Cerulean Blue,

but the cap was stuck fast, fixed with dried glue.

I used to think walking away was a sin,

that once you started, you had to jump in.

But the air felt lighter the moment I let go,

watching the box slide down to the shadows below.

There’s a kind of peace in a failed, half-done chore,

leaving more room on the shelf and the floor.