i.
i found a little
pull in the threads of
my favorite sweater
the day my father told me
my mother was
(is) clinically
depressed.

ii.
the first time i saw
a tear in
my favorite sweater
was in fifth grade
and i learned
that the price to be
perfect was cheating
on a spelling test
and a finger
down the throat

iii.
i started realizing that
other people’s sweaters
had tears and pulls when i
was walking
to the park
and saw the teenage girl
who had carved ribbons
and ladders
up her forearms.

iv.
my sweater didn’t show it’s
wear
until
i provoked my father and his
response was
mirrored to that of his
alcoholic, abusive father.
(in turn i smashed every cup
in the cupboard).

v.
my shoulders began to curl
inward
due to the weight
of that sweater.
and i explained to my therapist
that the meds weren’t working
and that i was tired but
i could only sleep after
drawing
an equal amount of lines
on each hip.

vi.
the scraps of ***** yarn,
hardly keeps me warm
anymore.

vii.
for the longest time
i worried i was the only one
who wore a filthy sweater
until i had a best friend
who lifted up her sleeve to show me her
identical  
wrist

viii.
i don’t like to wear my sweater
anymore
but like most old belongings
i don’t have the
heart to throw
it away.