When the sun closes her eyes and pretends to sleep, I go back,
back to before scraping my knee didn’t make me cry,
before I wished I still knew how to pretend and every path led to a hidden cave with broken glass and rusted swing sets,
before you stopped placing kisses on my forehead and telling me how great I was while I wiped them off.
They sold the woods behind my house today,
and when I can’t close my eyes and pretend to sleep, I go back,
back to when the sweat on my forehead was sweet and the jog from one fence to another felt dangerous, like the grass beneath me would open up and let me fall without stopping,
when giggling made my heart race and every time I felt hurt it was an accident,
I could get lost with the asphalt shingles still peaking above the rock wall,
with your hand still waving from the right bedroom window.
They sold the woods behind my house today,
and my bed stopped being mine three years before,
the smell of soft detergent and sweet cinnamon is new to me.
I used to walk in and not smell anything at all, now my dog sniffs me the longest,
They sold the woods behind my house today, and when I lay in the wet grass in front of the path that will soon lead nowhere, I let it stick to my new clothes and old skin.
I think about how I know I will have to leave soon,
if I ever get up.
Maybe they will come and pick me up, cutting my limbs off one by one while my sweet sap runs over the rocks and down the lawn,
maybe they will bring me where they bring the woods.
