When I comprehended that I had given my life away
To all the wrong people,
It seemed too late.
Too late to recuperate empty spaces in my mind,
Freedom, unblemished surfaces.
The images inhabit my brain, the faces, they’re a part of the story.
Erasing them would eradicate parts of myself,
At a certain point in time,
The girl who sought them out or
Was so sure of who she was when she met them and
Ran marathons in labyrinths trying to find
What she had never heard from anyone ever before.
“Isabella and the Pot of Basil” by John White Alexander (1856-1915)