overlook

Let's trade off. You would attempt to pick locks with my discarded bobby pins and I would fracture the door with an axe. We could pretend Wendy was the real killer in The Shining and I'd come at it from her angle (such angles! brunette, eyes a little too big for her face, other worldliness that shouldn't quite work, but goodness, it does for you). Except I wouldn't bludgeon you with it (or croquet mallets, for that matter), you'd just get crushed by your own inability to focus on anything else. Instead you'd write the same sentence over and over again on my tongue. All play and no work when Wendy emerges from under your writing desk, announcing her presence by way of teeth. Your typewriter topples and discarded alphabet letters clang in reverse, writing senseless poetry. I wonder what beauty the ribbon spelled out on accident when the machine hit the floor, reams of paper upset into their own blizzard. In place of mad key strokes, the marks of your intentions and the imprints of your imagination would bloom in purple and blue ink on the blank sheet of pale skin right in the places you want to see your thoughts appear, sliding the page to the indentions where you want to start whole paragraphs, repeating the idea indefinitely, ending with purposeful, sometimes prayerful punctuations.

She wouldn't be so easy to read, hiding keys (the one to the haunted room and typewriter keys.. where the fuck did my L go? You can't even start your sentence without it) and walking backwards through snowy labyrinths, kicking the fresh fall over her own dead giveaways. You'd only be allowed to enter that room when she dropped the chain into your palm that said No. 237, and spend your time confused by patterns in the shifting carpeting blocking you in, the print you push her face into suddenly turning inwards and enveloping you in parentheses as you slowly lose it, snowbound prisoner, to a fever that has nothing at all to do with cabins, but hallways you get turned around in and maybe more than a little bit of blood.