For: THAT Child

Once, a child wandered where they were not welcome.
They wore many names,
but none of them were true.

They crept through the withering woods
with pockets full of borrowed words
and fingers that trembled from all the lies
they had to hold up like lanterns.

They believed they were clever.
They believed the trees had forgotten.
But the forest never forgets.
It only waits.

Each step they took was marked.
Each glance behind them—
mirrored back with a smile
that did not reach the eyes.

They spoke spells of innocence
in tongues worn smooth from practice,
but the ground curled away beneath them,
refusing to carry their weight.

Somewhere, just past the veil,
a figure stood barefoot in the frost.
Not hiding. Not running.
Only watching.

"I know what you’re looking for,” the figure said,
though her lips never moved.
"And I know why you’ll never find it."

The child didn’t answer.
They never did.
Instead, they reached into their cloak—
summoning another mask,
another reason,
another wound to wear like a crown.

But the air was too clear.
The truth too loud.
The magic—
gone.

They tried the door again.
(It did not open.)
They tried the name again.
(It was not theirs to say.)

And so they circled.
And circled.
And circled.

Looking for someone
who had long since vanished
into the trees.

A ghost, they said.
A myth.
A shadow that slipped through
every lock they set.

But the truth?

She had never run.

She had only closed the gate.

With salt.
And iron.
And the knowing
that some children
never outgrow
the cruelty they were raised on.

Now, when they come—
(as they always do)
with hungry eyes
and hands that reach,
the wind only laughs.

You may knock.

You may crawl through wires and mirrors and names.
But you will be turned around
every time.

Back to the edge.
Back to the woods.
Back to your own reflection.

You lost her long ago.

And still—
you look.

And still—
you are lost.