Go ask Alice, she’s got a tale to tell
you can find her in the back shelf in the dark.
Take her home, her covers seeping into your hands,
and in secret, hold your breath and read.
But with the opening cover, an opening world
one which can never be shut again—
you can burn your clothes, tear your skin, burn your hands,
but the infection can never be cured.
You cannot starve her, or leech her,
cannot run away to new rooms, or new homes:
these are games she scoffs at with glee.
She knows you were hers the moment you touched,
and she is inside you now, infinitely,
your world branded—incurably— with her name.