There is something about seeing a woman in a man's clothes that hints at recent sins, for where are her own clothes and why does she choose to wear a man's shirt? A man's stink? His salty passions, faded nights written sartorially in drink? The wood of his wardrobe and his love of meatballs?
Jackets are overcoats, clothes lie, skin peeks from behind rolled up sleeves pants are dated, we say, **** pants. There is a sense that what I've been wearing has never seen better days. I study this creature with a cat's grace masquerading in a mongrel's wrinkled skin.
It is then I decide that these clothes are no longer mine, that they belong to she who they've chosen and that I'd rather be naked than feel the shame of being second best for my own things. Quietly, I peel her like an orange, tongues singing like electricity.
As seen on Apostatements (apostating.wordpress.com)