I am thinking about doing a series about my dreams, and so this poem (a very first draft, no time for revising today) is something that might be part of that series, should I decide I want to continue the project.
Dream, April 12
Last night my tattoos
holes in the ink revealing
no flaking, no cracking, just
the infestation of blank canvas
My firstborn ink rotted with whiteness,
became just a memory.
My pride became pockmarked
and then invisible.
My commitment thinned
and vanished with my summer tan.