My Body is Not A Wonderland

I would like to quickly clarify something.

My body is not a wonderland.

Alice has never seen the insides of my skin, she hasn’t chased a rabbit through me-

And while my insides may be crazy-I have never met the Mad Hatter here.

 

My body is the scale that tests a man’s soul at the gate of the underworld.

Is your soul lighter than a feather?

Then, you may enter.

Souls dragged down by weights of bodies cannot find their way here. Those who leave marks on souls too vibrant to be erased will have no chance of being weighed.

My body is not a wonderland.

 

My body does not house amusement parks, games nor restaurants.

No one is having tea inside of me.

My body is a stairway. Sixteen steps, the longest you’ll ever climb. Lucky numbers.

Broken bottles, smashed up picture frames, roses growing between the cracks.

Careful at the sound of your feet on my back,

my body is not a wonderland.

 

The scars on my legs from falling down in my roller blades,

stretch marks on my thighs, dirty fingernails, chipped toe nail polish,

sore muscles and  exhausted lungs.

They cannot see what you are.

 

I will not respond to calls for wonderment. Whispers of rumors of maybe her body is likes

I am walking when you are leaning, when you are yelling, when you are scheming.

I will not be moved to tears by the claims of what my body can do and for how much

A man might be willing to do for it.

You cannot purchase admission.

My body is not a wonderland.

 

I am not the ice cream reward at the end of a chase after the truck they sell it off of.

If I ignore you, you should fuck off.

My body is not a wonderland.

It is the scale.

At the gate of the underworld-

To test a man’s soul.

Is your soul lighter than a feather?

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