I had a
dream about you many years ago,
or maybe
it was only someone
who bore
you a strong resemblance,
I can no
longer remember.
The door
was locked,
but you
climbed inside anyway
by pushing
open the transom.
I failed
to engage
the tiny
piece of metal that held
the clasp
shut, and there you were again,
laughing
as you squeezed your body
through
the tiny opening
like a
supernatural movie villain.
It was
more irritating than terrifying,
but I knew
that to let you in
would be
the same awful mistake
that it
had always been.
You'd sit
on my floor,
break my
toys carefully
and
deliberately, one by one
while
telling me that you were only
going to
take one sip
of my
glass of soda, so could
I please
let you drink just a tiny bit?
I'd always
say sure,
because I
hated to see you thirsty.
You'd gulp
down the entire glass
every
time,
and leave
me the backwash,
then
apologize for your thirst.
That's
your rendition
of our
story, the one that never changes.
In the
revised version,
I tell you
to get your own soda,
and you
disappear,
leaving me
alone with the dolls
and all of
the other unbroken toys
that I
never asked for in the first place,
and then I
fall asleep,
leaving my
door unlocked.
