i know a thing or two about girls who jump rabbit holes — all dead eyes and ripped laces and cigarettes; there was no white rabbit to begin with. i know a thing or two about girls who run away from themselves.
alice — a wildflower as they say: with limbs made of wilted dahlias, with wasps nesting in her chest — alice, has the cat not told you that one can only lay too much flowers on just a single grave — just a single hollow body, before they grow into forest of trees from where all your nooses hang?
nonetheless, tiptoe and fall. this way to wonderland — this way to the rabbit hole, this way to the cemetery, this way to your eyes, to your chest, to your palms. has the fickle cat not told you that there was no white rabbit in the advent of your own apocalypse?
this is your fairytale, sweet, sweet girl. light that cigarette and set yourself on fire, your mind already is hell anyway. and i know a thing or two about a girl who descended to hell — you are proserpina without the weeping. you are proserpina without the crown.
but in someplace else, alice never bothered leaving. no one's waiting back at home, and no one's waiting to be found.