If it's almost March

I'd like to lock my bedroom door and scream at the top of my lungs that I know no one has the key.

I want to pace up and down my living room and drag mud into the kitchen. I want to roll up that dark Egyptian rug and throw it into the snow.

I want to erase the memories from this mind and start with a new and empty bowl. Ladle a new soup for today and tomorrow.