we were eleven years old in her childhood room.
she pulled a pink dollhouse from her closet, similar
to the color of my cheeks; i swear i tried my hardest
to hide it from her. the front door **** was
covered in angel tears, or so she called it. i asked her
where our room was and she
pointed to a red and white door.

“this is my hiding spot. i like to imagine during
school that when we run away together, doors just won’t exist.
i don’t want anything opening and closing other than your
mouth when you speak haikus into my veins.”

my heart races around 85mph sometimes but dear, you
had me going 100 and i don’t know whether or not to stop saying the words i am and my sentences aren’t haikus, but rather sonnets now and -

“just open the door, my lovestruck poet, come inside, take off the
door ****, and live through me. my favorite flowers
are gerbera daisies, they come in all colors like this house, but
you’ll always be my favorite,” she whispered, afraid of her mother
hearing this midnight confession. her door was pink;
she held a doorknob in her hand.