The roughness of corduroy

Fingers dig into ribs of fabric,

faded brown, thick with age.

Scratchy ridges scrape my skin,

bring back a teenage red face,

tumbled on cold cement, clutching shame.

That jacket hung heavy on my shoulders,

coarse against my wrist,

a shield that scratched and pinched,

like memory too raw to smooth over.

Now I wear it like a bruise,

felt more than seen,

a rough skin that never quite heals.