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.

320px-Isabella_and_the_Pot_of_Basil

Isabella and the Pot of Basil” by John White Alexander (1856-1915)

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