Each of us is our own novel
until our very last page, no one...
not even us...
knows how our novel will end,
otherwise, who'd want to read it
It seems everything has fallen into place;
not quite what I had in mind,
but, nonetheless, I suppose it’s mine.
And how disgraced I might be
if I went where I pleased and
toppled all that has fallen on me—
only to suffocate underneath.
For those battered and broken
over time, I remain a mystery,
someone who lives alone with
nothing vying to grip my mind.
Endless soiled linens falling—
the devil threw us into the abyss,
the height dependent on the age of
the stains on our gowns.
I look up, passed my rising breath,
to the place where I might forget
my guilty naiveté and dry my
flooded eyes with tears of the lost.
I am Alice out of Wonderland and
there are rules of the game for a
windup girl in a dystopian world.
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