The body I used to live in

I pulled the sweater from the drawer,

the one I'd kept for years—

collar worn, tag faded,

the grey that was before.

I held it to my chest,

remembering when it fit me right,

the sleeves exactly long enough,

the waist still tight.

I tried it on anyway,

knowing it wouldn't fit,

knowing I'd changed, knowing

my body had moved on from it.

The collar pulled tight at my throat,

the seams pinched, all wrong,

everything about it foreign now,

something I didn't belong.

But I kept it in the drawer,

folded neat, wanting more

of the person the sweater remembered,

the one who wore it, tendered.

I took it off.

It wasn't me anymore.

But I couldn't let it go,

couldn't donate it, couldn't throw

it away, couldn't accept

that the body I lived in

was someone else now,

someone the sweater

would never know.