What Tenderness Costs

I found it in my drawer while folding—

the old t-shirt, still holding

onto softness even though

the fabric's so thin I can see through,

there's a hole at the armpit, the collar's frayed,

the whole thing should have been thrown away.

I bought it years ago

when I was trying to know

what comfort felt like, what it meant

to let myself just be content

with something soft against my skin

instead of fighting to win

some version of myself that's hard,

that's distant, that stands guard

against the world.

I wore it to sleep every night,

held it close, held it tight,

and the cotton loved me back,

wore down and didn't crack

until now, when it's almost gone,

when wearing it has worn

the fabric down to almost nothing,

to almost something

I can see right through.

I love it because it's true—

it shows what love does,

how tenderness is because

you let yourself be vulnerable,

let yourself be curable

by something as simple

as the feel of material

against your skin at night.

I could throw it out tonight.

I should throw it out.

Instead I fold it gently, no doubt

in my mind that I'll keep it,

that I'll wear it, I'll sleep it

in until there's nothing left,

until I've stripped

it down to thread,

until I've made it dead

by loving it completely.

That's how I treat things—

tenderly, bringing

them to their end

by refusing to let them go,

by loving so hard they break,

by the choices I make

to hold onto what's dying

instead of trying

to save it.