My clothes are wearing me.
Trying me on, shrugging me off.
I don’t fit right – although the mirror is kinder than the mind.
Who are these clothes, with their demands and attention-seeking pin-tucks?
The synthetic sparkle sloughs my skin, glamorous sandpaper.
The Mexican dress makes me all the more gringa.
I have woken up today and decided that polkadots are foolish.
I am wearing bathwater, I am wrapped in sweat and tea-dyed calico.
Fanciful, fantasy, frayed old jeans. Break off this salt-crust.
Hand-forged, recycled, who?