Why are we talking about this? you say
Because I remember it, I say
searing replay in infinite regress
myself seeing myself hearing and hearing it again
There are words, I say
that are etched. When someone tells
you who they are. You need to remember
to believe them.
You shrug. Look away.
We can't keep going back:
it's a new day. And I wish
we couldn't. Wish
we could delete, restart.
Walk the circle counterclockwise
to before. Uncross the crossings.
Crawl back into the childhood bunkbed
curl under the blanket,
and leg my legs dangle over darkness
as I sit, fishing the hurts from the emptyness
winding them into a tight ball of string
that can be bunched in a fist
and thrown away.
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