Our Dear Alice

I had a friend once,
by the name of Alice.
She wrote poetry
and talked for hours on the phone.
Alice was the type of girl
who gives you her heart
the second you breathe her name.

Alice was told that she wasn't real,
she was words on a page,
song in a throat,
blood mixed with tears.
She was imagined and that
is all she could ever
stand to be.

Now, you have to understand something
about our dear Alice.
She was soft.
She trusted when given good reason,
so when along came the Cheshire cat
she threw herself upon his cunning
and his clever little lines.

And yet, to him,
she was just a script
of brittle, broken words.

Alice screamed with laughter when
Cheshire slashed thin claws across
her not-so-pretty face.
"I just want to be understood"
He giggled towards her blood.
"I just want to be forgiven"
is what she cried back.
Unfortunately for the both of them,
neither ideal was attainable.

Alice embraced the stripes of the cat,
praying for his goodness to
supercede the cruelty that his heart
had lapped at.
But he flung her to the wind,
belowing humility and
simplicity.
Unfortunately,
neither ideal was achievable.

She attempted for
the longest time
to hold her breath
in the bathtub
because that's where her heart
told her she belonged.

Alice died.
The end.

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call alice...she needs to talk.