The Pull

They're tight.

The zipper strains.

The button pulls

against the hole,

making a small

protest.

I wore them anyway—

all day,

the mark from the waistband

turning my skin red,

a temporary tattoo

that says

you changed,

you're not

the person

who slipped

into these

two years ago.

I know this.

I've known it for months,

the way you know

things you don't

want to know,

the way the body

keeps receipts.

But I kept them.

That's the thing.

Could have thrown them out,

could have donated them,

could have let them

become someone else's

memory.

Instead I keep them

in the drawer,

folded wrong,

taking up space

next to the jeans

that actually button,

the ones that don't

leave marks,

the ones that fit

the person

I am now.

Some kind of loyalty,

I guess.

Some kind of

promise

to myself

that I'm not done

changing,

that maybe

next month,

next year,

I'll want to

squeeze back into

the size

I used to be.

But every time

I wear them

I remember

that the body

doesn't go backward.

It only goes

forward,

and leaves

these tighter clothes

as proof

that you're

leaving

something

behind.

The mark

on my waist

faded

by evening.

By tomorrow

it will be gone.

But the jeans

will still be there,

waiting,

like a small

accusation.