The Fabric of Grudges

The denim is cold and stiff as a board,

a ghost of a shape I don't carry anymore.

I try to pull the waist together, a frayed cord

of memory that I’ve dragged across the floor.

There are white stress marks near the copper button

where the weave gave up trying to hold me in.

I’m standing in the closet, feeling like a glutton

for the way I used to fit inside my own skin.

I should throw them in a bag or give them away,

but I hang them back up like a threat or a dare.

It’s a specific kind of penance to look every day

at the version of myself that isn't actually there.