Zip Halfway

These jeans, I pulled them out again.

Three years, a promise made within.

My body's changed, a different shape,

no easy win, no swift escape.

I wrestled with the denim blue,

remembered who I once got through

the day as, smaller, more defined.

That ghost of me, I left behind.

The button pulled, the zipper groaned,

a tiny rip, a thread dethroned.

Across my hip, the fabric strained,

a truth so loud, it can't be feigned.

Old softener smell, a faint perfume,

trapped in this too-small, faded room.

I stood there, just an inch too wide,

with nowhere left for shame to hide.