The collar’s frayed edge rubs raw against my neck

The collar’s frayed edge rubs raw against my neck,

a stiff ghost breath trapped in the folds.

The lining smells of old smoke and yesterday’s rain,

a borrowed history dragging behind me.

I wear it for minutes—then hours—

and carry someone else’s footsteps,

their careless walks pressed into the fabric,

their silence stitched between the seams.

This coat isn’t mine; it’s a shadow

clinging to thread, pulling tight,

a weight I can’t shrug off,

no matter how much I try.