I pulled on the college tshirt this morning

I pulled on the college t-shirt this morning,

the one I've kept for fifteen years,

and the neckline just ripped. No warning—

the cotton fibers giving out, my fears

finally real. My hand caught the collar

and the hole grew as I tugged,

the print on the chest started to holler

its fading color, everything rigged

to fall apart. The white fibers sticking out

like the shirt was coming undone

from the inside, and I just watched

what it had become—not the one

I remembered wearing, but something worn,

something fragile and exhausted,

something that had been holding on

since the day it was lost

in my drawer, waiting for this moment,

for my hand to catch it wrong,

for the fabric to split, the torment

of holding on too long.

I put it in the trash.

Then took it back out.

Put it back. This dash

between keeping and doubt

will last all night, I know.

I'll fish it out and fold

it carefully, place it slow

with the other things I hold

that I can't wear anymore,

the graveyard of who I was,

slowly coming apart, and more

than that—the cause

of my own refusal

to let things go,

to accept the usual

loss, the ebb and flow.