November and Me
I go through
the clothes I've worn,
and remember all I've seen
on vacations and trampolines
and picnics and movie scenes.
I've been scared and acted tough and melted from my heart hurting so much.
All while
wearing these things.
I've been free and trapped and happy
wearing pieces of fabric, blue and black and pink and white. It's too much and yet not enough.
Today, I cleaned
out the drawers,
which in the past, never brought
tears. But now.
But now. I
remember
my clothes as little memories
of
holidays and trips -- I
wore them while he wore you.
And I
realize that some have
belonged to me
through the
whole thing, and
so
they must go
because the fibers of them against my skin can no longer be.
They
are no longer meant for November. They are no longer meant for Me.
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