The wool scratches my skin

The wool scratches my skin,

worn thin at the collar,

stretched like the promises

stitched deep into these sleeves.

I shove into it again,

a coat too small, too stiff,

handed down from years where

expectations crushed the ribs beneath.

Each thread pulls tighter,

and I drag the weight, clumsy,

a shadow stitched with every ‘should,’

every ‘must,’ and every ‘why aren’t you?’

Cold air seeps under the hem,

biting, relentless,

but I carry it still,

too heavy to leave behind.