I don't know how to care less.
I don't know how to expect less from myself.
Cicadas borrowed my pores
the last 17 years
and now they're uprooting,
stealing any semblance of calm.
I've always written off
that crawling beneath my skin
as anxiety plucking veins, but
all this time I've been a home
even though I have no home.

I can't afford to not know.
Every indecision costs me $30,000
and a lifetime of debt.

I wish I could burrow,
borrow someone's pores
and pretend this solitary confinement
is actually a warm hug
from my favorite sweater
that I don't even have to wear
a shirt under,
because the itching never bothered me.