Alice and the Gun

Alice dances with a gun in her hand.
She shoots and the white rabbit licks jam from its paws.

He draws lines on my neck.
The places where he will shave off little pieces of me.
Where I will turn to jam and rabbits.

I buy clothes wash. I pay a pound and the lady says it must be massive. The problem. You know. Not really.

He holds my arm. Turns it. Counts the thorns. He should let it go but he keeps a hold. Strokes me a little. And I feel foolish. Being touched.

Some people can lay hands. Not all. Not the man with no teeth or crazy neighbour lady. Not the man in the car that smiles. Until the door locks behind me.

The stoop water is so cool. I stroke it over my temple. Over the bruises. I relish the tiny moment of comfort. And safety. A little mercy in the middle of the day.

Well done you.

My head vibrates it’s so hot. The massive thing will never let go.
I am no longer the little shit. I am the little shit that wrote a letter. And the letter has more power than me. The reply will be posted and my name forgotten. All notes and pictures tidied away. For thirty years. A royal execution. My dust and paws lost to the Red Queen.

I know. Whatever trick. I have played it out first.

The priest turns the lights down. Takes away the water and the wine.
I am not sure if it is him or the policeman buying Golden Virginia and milk.
I really would like a cup of water.

He stands me in front of the mirror.
The man with the lines.

Where is J.

Here I am.
Licking my lips.
Hiding behind Alice and the gun.