Worn Fine

I washed it again,

even though I know

the pills won't come out,

even though I could buy

another one for twenty dollars

and not feel it.

But this one knows my body.

This one has learned

the shape of my shoulders,

the way my arms bend,

the way I hunch

when I'm tired.

The pills are clustered

around the cuffs

where I've been picking at them

for two years,

small balls of fiber

the color this sweater was

when it was new,

before it became

this soft,

this broken,

this mine.

I could throw it away.

I could upgrade.

I could have something

that doesn't look like I've worn it

through seasons,

through months,

through the accumulation

of just being alive.

But worn is fine.

Worn is honest.

Worn is the proof

that I've inhabited this thing,

that it's been with me,

that we've both survived

being used.

I pull it over my head

and it settles around me

like something

I don't have to apologize for.