Into the Rabbit Hole

the rabbit hole you never enter on purpose. that's rule one. it opens on a tuesday, mid-yawn, mid-sentence, somewhere between the couch and the kitchen, and down you go. you follow it the way you follow anything at 3 a.m., chasing a truth you already suspect you haven't earned. the visions come dressed as symbols. teeth falling into a sink. a hallway that keeps adding doors. your childhood dog standing at the end of it, not coming when called. fear doesn't shout down here. it gestures. it rearranges the furniture of places you swore you'd forgotten and asks, politely, if anything looks familiar. and then the flood. memory with the tap broken, faces out of order, old kitchens, old voices, the uncanny flow of things half-remembered and fully felt, rising past your ankles, your knees. you wanted the truth. the hole knew that. it just never promised the truth would want you back. so you float. you let the water carry what it carries. and when you wake, wherever waking is, you check your teeth, count the doors, and pretend you weren't just somewhere that knew you better than you do.