An earlier version of The Rabbit Hole was published in the Write Like You’re Alive 2016 anthology which can be found here for free.
Write Like You’re Alive 2016, Zoetic Press
When the sun is risen, I pluck it from the sky and place it in my basket just in case. You can no longer dangle that carrot in my face. That carrot of another day I might care a bit. You think I’m just any old rabbit? I’m a rare bit. My thoughts a rabid slew of frothing spew. Mind askew. A stew. Skewered meat and some vegetables, too. And more than a few screws loose.
What’s more, the cake is no longer arousing. You can’t roust the flour with battering. Punched down. Kneaded. Batter deflated, flattened, cracked, and jaded. Raised then sunken in the middle like the tops of bread loaves, beds of lovers, hearts, and clovers.
You deflower my high key. Pluck all the brightest parts of me, one by one until there’s nothing left under the yellow sun. The day’s eye blinded, I’m done. Prick me with your fork. You’ll see you won. I’m wilted and there’s nothing left but to push my daisy. At least when you devour my psyche, you can no longer leave crumbs on my palm for me to blow off and wish upon.
The smell of burning bridges reminds me of victory mixed with chicory and licorice lace, the black kind. Bittersweet and yearning, can’t stand the taste. Why am I wasting the end of time talking to the sky? I can’t begin to explain why. Well, I guess in the end, it feels good to talk to a friend and even lies look like rainbows at night.
All reason is lost down this rabbit hole of mine. But your sun will no longer rise and shine unless I decide. Until then, I wish I had a pocket to keep it in, but rabbits only have baskets. Baskets meant for eggs, which would be rather helpful for baking cakes or fasting breaks – sunny side up. My mistake.
I look to the sky and promise not another day goes by. But the clouds begin to cry. I nod my head as I realize, Rabbit, you’re already dead. I let the sun resume its role and jump back down my rabbit hole.