Remade

the burning season leaves my body like the shape of the sound of a name. coming around every three years to seek and destroy in the spirit of formlessness, soft to be remade. making efforts to look at old pictures of myself and only recognize the background geography. heavy every day wondering why can’t I exist in accumulation, stuck on small time aberrations looking for the skeletal glyphs of a conspiracy conceived in the junk drawer. time is a circle, the circle is a snake, the snake is the ouroboros eating the head at the mouth. every third-year drips with decided expiration and I walk away on fire in self-righteous immolation too fast but too slow. holding on to sharp objects that cut self-affirming slices of once rendered feelings into a patchwork of scant ribbons. the aftermath looks like things I cared for but was too afraid to care more and the snake aimed to swallow something vital between my shoulder blades. I am left on the couch pretending not to know who killed Laura Palmer again in a non-existent mystery of shedding skin and the demons of misperception. transforming slow enough for distant viewing, like substance without direction in a series of low light vignettes to be seen and not shouldered.