All at once.

You can spend your whole entire life trying to find the version of the you, you’d want to breathe off , settling fragments of ideal images allowing them to stain your lungs function like perspiration, so stubbornly.
You tossed a spit of forgetfulness into your mother’s vase, and hoped for it to turn to ashes so you wouldn’t be reminding of the things cutaway. Such as mistakes, they drip from your pores with a sort of belongingness you’d want to smash with your fathers favorite hammer, continuously, non-stopping.

All at once

But just like all the other collection of memories titled -to get rid of- 
Your mistakes are meant for you to drown into for a little while, before learning how to swim.
Even if it’s on a friday night, like me and you don’t remember if you cut the stove off or let the windows up to your car.