my fingers never warm up
and you joked about how
cold my heart is,
it must be so cold in there
so I asked if that's the way
you deflect--because every
time I tried to care for you,
you'd mock me.

I felt like your world
wasn't all inclusive
i wasn't a shiny stone
in your rough, just a
***** in a fenced
garden, a breeze in
your wild storm--
but I found what
usually is at the
heart of a tornado--
eery silence--and you.
stripped down and
angry, a self-made victim
shouting you made me do it.

But was I there, Peter Pan?
Did I make you do it?
did I weasel into your
head and take you
hostage? Did I rip
you away from
Neverland, shed
light on what
was never
magic?