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…