Maybe I speak
in bark static—
the language of
low branches and dry leaves.
Not fluent,
just enough to whisper
my coordinates
to anything listening.

Maybe I’m
the kind of joke
that keeps surviving.
Unchosen,
but still drawn
across every page
you tried to skip.

Maybe I win
because you never
took me seriously.
The moment
you blinked,
I rewrote
the ending.

Maybe I nest
in the cavities
of forgotten gods.
Make quilts
from their cloaks,
line my walls
with their teeth.

Maybe I’m not
the girl you watched
but the thing
you couldn't picture
losing to.

Maybe that’s
what scared you.