My hair gathered behind the dollhouse. 

I used to hate when it got past my shoulders. It collected back there in globs. The way I find dust bunnies under my dresser now; that was my hair.  When there was an opening, I would tuck it in my shirt, run to the trash can to dispose of it. Little auburn chunks.  I was a surreptitious child. Mostly, I tried to sweep it under the dollhouse as if it would disappear into the carpet. Hoped my mother wouldn’t dust. That’s how I hid everything back then. With a wink. And scissors. A smile. A wish. Staring at lights on my closet door.  I don’t remember my mother ever finding out so I wasn’t terrible at it either.

“I have never let my hair grow past my shoulders,” I say. “Some say that’s the weirdest thing about me.” 

He looks at his hands.“Remember only one sentence has to be a lie to discount the whole thing.”

I smile.
You sneer.
And try not to laugh
and try not to give
a single thing

“doors #5”

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