Rasa.

Once more I am spiraling
back to that place of
ending that is beginning,
an infinite snake choking on her tail.

The half-healed weals and
barely borne burdens -
layers of peeling paint on a steel frame -
seem to fade as the long hand
hits the twelve.

Rewind. Reset. Reframe.

What if I sanded down the rough edges and
put on a fresh coat,
covered over the tells and history
with something pleasantly empty,
waiting to be filled?

What if I loosened the bonds of memory
just enough to get a deep breath
and a clean slate?