You feel you must be rid of it* and so 

you rid yourself of it and either you  

painlessly forget it, just as soon as

it's rid of, and find it wasn’t truly

essential to possess it after all;

or tidily recall it, even though

it's rid of, and find it wasn’t truly 

essential to possess it after all.

*What is it? It’s just as the weatherman

predicted: It’s wildfire spanning

the plains from the gilt edge to the very

beginning, sirening a grinding halt. 

It’s your sex life, caving in and crushing

its own past with tart revisionism.