I own an ugly sweater It has tatters and tears Misshapen patterns And holes everywhere
From the missing tag That’s been savagely clawed and cut out Why companies make them so scratchy I have yet to find out.
Cheese grader sized holes From where hungry moths attacked For their personal enjoyment Or a midnight snack.
A perfectly good sweater And being prone to sharp corners Don’t pair well together Just ask my unraveling thread That’s been caught onto edges And hideously snagged.
It’s humorously sad Go ahead, you can laugh Your sweater is next The moths are coming I promise you that.
The bottom frays like a hippy I would say it looks cool But that style died in the seventies Just wait, that that trend will recycle I’m not in denial.
The fabric and material What’s left of it Is a delicate cashmere…
Alright fine, it’s a scratchy wool Ancient, archaic, and feels like Velcro.
Sometimes leaves cling So I look like a tree The optimistic side of me Just says nature loves me.
But I could do without the bees Ohh so many stings…
The insides are bumpy From being cleaned on high heat Now my sweater suffers from dwarfism It’s challenged vertically.
The wrists are stretched out From being rolled up and down Permanently smells like dirt or meat Depending on my activity Or what I had to eat.
Blackened mascara speckles the sleeve From dramatic tears Or being too lazy to grab a tissue As if my sweater doesn’t have enough issues I drag in my problems My pendulum swinging emotions If my sweater were human I swear, it would leave me.
It’s been thrown on the floor Tossed in the back of my car Tied around my waist And forgotten in stores I always say sorry I hope it forgives me.
From the sleeves that cradles sneezes Hugs are completed Sharing germs or sharing love All becomes one experience. You’re welcome.
The front like a canvas A Jackson ******* painting Ubiquitous splatters of coffee stains.
Missing sips that dripped off my lips From being scolding hot Or scarce concentration But nine times out of ten It’s my deficient attention.
Looking like it’s been through hell And no denying it has. Sure, I could donate this human sized rag But they wouldn’t know the story behind Each stain and frayed thread.
They would see the sweater as just ugly Dismiss there was even a journey They wouldn’t ask The why’s or how’s it came to be.
This sweater is not just fabric It’s a memory An extension of me. … .. . But seriously, I should get this dry-cleaned It’s disgusting.