After all

locking the door and walking away
is like turning your back (on an old [...]
)
forgive, sprawl, messy on the duvet
arms outstretched- to me in artificial wonderland.
It always seems to be a fault of mine,
playing, toying with you
(although I certainly don't mean this...
at least not in that way)
You tell me almost everything
yet the door, in the beginning,
is locked and you must open it
because it is a metaphor of me.