Soft Armor

I tried to clean the sleeves with a cheap razor.

I wanted to look like someone who has their life

folded and stacked in cedar-scented drawers.

But the wool is stubborn; it’s turned into armor,

covered in thousands of tiny, hard knots.

The blade slipped. Now there’s a jagged mouth

on the left cuff, showing the pale skin of my wrist.

I’ve worn this through three breakups and a funeral.

The elbows are thin as cigarette paper,

holding on by a thread that refuses to snap.

I pick the pilled gray wool out from under my nails.

I’ll wear the blazer over it tomorrow, I guess.

Hide the damage under something structured.

It’s better to have a secret ruin against your skin

than to go out into the cold with nothing at all.