Alice

I started the book. The one which weighed so heavy. The one I thought would mean everything. I un-pulled the stitches. Peeled off the glue. Licked up the red and began. By the second page I breathed and I saw that letters are only shapes. Black marks. You can turn them upside down and this way and that but that’s all letters are. Shapes. Some days the black marks eat you. Some days they feed you. Some days they hold you so tight you can’t breathe and the blood inside you turns to acid. Acid and rust. All the seconds inside acidify into nothing. A poison you can’t hold. Or swallow. You want to capture everything. Turn the shapes into symbols. Turn nothing into meaning. But letters are the holes in the net. Not the string. It is in between the letters that the story can be found. If you dare to look. I am not sure I want this book now. The weight tires my hands. A stone carried too long in my head. I don’t care what signs are left on my wrists. On my heart. I will catch them as they fall past me on the way back up the rabbit hole. I smile. It is all such nonsense. There is no beginning middle or end. The Cheshire Cat comes together licks his paws savours the jam Alice dances with the candle. Her little letter feet inside her little letter shoes. Weightless. And I dream a thousand dreams knowing she is inside of me. That she never left. Alice is always there.