trimming curves from corners,
you go through that door to find
yourself on the other side.

it’s not you but it may be you
or a better version of you,
one with less fear more verve,

possessing an emboldened sense
of your white-hot spirit, much
like an owl on the prowl for

garden toads or wildfire.
you just needed a push through
the cursed door, your doubts

wrestled to ground, your
anxieties quelled to turn you
into the you—all complete,
finding grace on your way,

grateful for the love, past the
[rear-view mirror], skipping
the soul-search, resting, but

filled to the gills with sangfroid.
just be sure to close the door
softly on your way out, as

I’ll still be asleep and there’s
          no other exit.