A Moment (From The Morning Of)

On the morning Of, I went outside with the thick utility scissors and above the bin outside the backdoor (where, on winter nights in the dim yellow light I remember another moment), I cut up the last memory I have. The rubber is tiny and stiff and I struggle and I can’t remember now if I was crying as I did it or I was hard and cold. I don’t know if it was hurting so much to cut because it was so small to cut into pieces or because it felt like I was cutting out a piece of me. Maybe it was both.

And when it was done, I knew it was done.

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