I keep pushing doors that very clearly read
into you —
I’m so cold.
I’ve only ever sought out rules
to confirm that I’d already broken them.
And I always have the last word,
I’m throwing you words
like misguided flat stones
skipping across the ponds
of our shallow mistake of a forest.
But I’ve always found the wooded jungle
of your mind
to be as mystical
as tiny stars who don’t realize
that they are a center of a little girl’s world
as she projects them onto
her bedroom ceiling;
as she reaches for them,
they disappear into
her own shadow.