peeling

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?