up late, neuroses kicking in, inner insomniac starts to clean
wipe away what's on the walls, the graffiti you've scrawled
over a decade and let the world tattoo itself all over you
removing the ink hurts just as much and the pain reminds you
of the futility of human creativity, blotted out by its successor
scars not quite hidden under those delicate hairs, erect in the cold
i never thought i'd embrace indifference but today i let its taste
linger on my tongue, let the pickles' brine sit and stagnate
and the best part was being surprised by my apathy, pleasantly surprised
about things that no longer concern me, about things like moles
whose borders impossibly change and stay the same after a sunburn
"you've got the same pants to get glad in," that southern woman used to say
i'm in the same pants and maybe i didn't get glad but that tattoo is gone
