In Wonderland, They Call It Alice
2020
It wasn’t a coincidence, now that I think about it, when I ran from a picnic and away (we know she doesn’t like to sip tea)
from white dresses to white blurs. It turned back with its beady pupils while still
pawing at the ceiling of soil, to see that I am still behind. The void is made
out of black eyes, witnessed only through its agape, craving mouth,
(she catches on fast)
dark and deep and down where everything is by someone’s
will, spiralling slide that takes me to where I know
that everything underground floats upwards.
(as nature intended)
(yet this girl denies nature)
I keep seeing white rabbits.
They seem to have dug burrows with entrances that are concealed by electrical bills, files of office reports and textbooks on finance. They come out of the crevices of my life, existing but out of my sight.
(only because she is blind)
Every tick of the clock is echoed by impatient tapping of a foot, soft enough that I can stamp my imagination on it, package it, and ship it off to a place where a stack of work has cast a shadow over it
(flowers seems like the right descriptions for us)
Though now that this one right in front of me is saying, quite angrily,
(rightfully)
it has become a worm in a sea where the fish are content with eating leaves. It seems impossible that all this is formed from just a speck of my imagination. I was in the middle as a child, where the brackets can’t reach me, my whole world is now buried and floating upwards.
(the price girls who don’t follow what was intended has to pay)