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AbbyslovePoems
I used to dress like a storm. Black denim, ripped sleeves, mascara smudged into something almost intentional, like I wanted the world to know I was made of thunder and broken guitar strings. Grunge was armor. It said don’t touch me don’t read me don’t try. And then you left, and somehow even the way I dressed started missing you. So I changed. Not all at once, not like flipping a switch, but slowly, like sunlight creeping through a room that used to belong to night. I traded silver chains for gold rings and brown sugar colored beads, tight ripped jeans for loose high wasted leggings , black lipstick for honey gloss that tastes like summer. Now I wear flowing skirts that move when the wind breathes, and loose shirts that fall off my shoulders like they’re tired of holding things up. I started looking like a girl who believes in peace. A girl who puts flowers behind her ears even when nobody is watching. A girl who twirls in mirrors just to see if the fabric catches the light. But the truth is— I only really wear the pretty ones on the days I work. On the days I know there is a chance you might walk through the door. And I hate admitting that even to myself. Because I pretend I’m doing it for me. I pretend I woke up and thought, Today feels like a soft brown dress day. But really, I am standing in front of my closet like it’s a battlefield asking questions that fabric cannot answer. Would he notice this one? Would he think I look happy? Would he see me and pause for half a second longer than necessary and remember that I used to belong to him? Sometimes I pick outfits like I’m building a memory. The loose white blouse you once said made me look like I stepped out of a painting. The skirt that moves like water when I walk. The bracelets that make small, hopeful sounds when I reach for things. I imagine you noticing. I imagine your eyes doing that thing where they soften before you even realize it. Maybe you’d think, She looks different. Maybe you’d think, She looks beautiful. And maybe— for just a second— you’d wonder what it would feel like to come back. So I walk into work looking like sunlight stitched into fabric. I move carefully, like every step is a performance for an audience of one. Every laugh a little louder. Every smile a little brighter. Because maybe if I shine enough you’ll remember I used to be your favorite light. But the thing about hope is that it stretches time until it almost snaps. Hours pass. Doors open. People come and go. And every time the bell rings my heart jumps like a foolish animal that still believes in rescue. But it’s never you. Just strangers. Just coworkers. Just the quiet realization that I built an entire version of today around a ghost. Still, I keep the outfit on. Because if I take it off then the illusion ends. If I change back into sweatpants and wipe off the gloss then I have to admit that the person I dressed for is not coming. And that’s the cruelest part of love, I think. How it teaches you to decorate yourself for someone who no longer lives in your life. How it turns mirrors into confession booths. How it makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you could be beautiful enough to reverse time. So I stand there in soft fabrics and soft sunlight, pretending the world is still the one where you walk in. Pretending you might still see me. Pretending my heartbeat isn’t just echoing through empty space. But the day always ends. The lights dim. The door closes. And hope finally loosens its grip on my ribs. Because the truth waits for me in the quiet of the night, whispering the only thing I cannot outrun: I got dressed for someone who isn’t coming back. And the flowers in my hair are starting to wilt. And the mirror no longer lies for me. And even though I changed my style— traded storms for sunshine, boots for soft fabrics and peace signs— some things never changed. Because when I get dressed, when I stand there trying to make the outfit perfect like it might matter if you see me— I still reach for your mom’s shoes. Every time. They don’t match the skirts. They throw off the whole look. They ruin the careful picture I tried to paint of myself. But they feel like your house, and late night drives, and the life I almost had. So I wear them anyway. And I will keep wearing them. I’ll wear them until the fabrics start loosening at the seams, until the careful stitching that holds everything together begins to fray. I’ll wear them until the threads give up their quiet grip one by one. I’ll wear them until you notice. Until you see them and realize I never stopped. Until you remember what you used to call me— your baby. You said it was my name, scrambled in your mouth. like it belonged there. Until you look down at those worn-out shoes and understand I’m still wearing them- for you.
0
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 12:59 AM UTC
Threads That Havent Let Go
I used to dress like a storm. Black denim, ripped sleeves, mascara smudged into something almost intentional, like I wanted the world to know I was made of thunder and broken guitar strings. Grunge was armor. It said don’t touch me don’t read me don’t try. And then you left, and somehow even the way I dressed started missing you. So I changed. Not all at once, not like flipping a switch, but slowly, like sunlight creeping through a room that used to belong to night. I traded silver chains for gold rings and brown sugar colored beads, tight ripped jeans for loose high wasted leggings , black lipstick for honey gloss that tastes like summer. Now I wear flowing skirts that move when the wind breathes, and loose shirts that fall off my shoulders like they’re tired of holding things up. I started looking like a girl who believes in peace. A girl who puts flowers behind her ears even when nobody is watching. A girl who twirls in mirrors just to see if the fabric catches the light. But the truth is— I only really wear the pretty ones on the days I work. On the days I know there is a chance you might walk through the door. And I hate admitting that even to myself. Because I pretend I’m doing it for me. I pretend I woke up and thought, Today feels like a soft brown dress day. But really, I am standing in front of my closet like it’s a battlefield asking questions that fabric cannot answer. Would he notice this one? Would he think I look happy? Would he see me and pause for half a second longer than necessary and remember that I used to belong to him? Sometimes I pick outfits like I’m building a memory. The loose white blouse you once said made me look like I stepped out of a painting. The skirt that moves like water when I walk. The bracelets that make small, hopeful sounds when I reach for things. I imagine you noticing. I imagine your eyes doing that thing where they soften before you even realize it. Maybe you’d think, She looks different. Maybe you’d think, She looks beautiful. And maybe— for just a second— you’d wonder what it would feel like to come back. So I walk into work looking like sunlight stitched into fabric. I move carefully, like every step is a performance for an audience of one. Every laugh a little louder. Every smile a little brighter. Because maybe if I shine enough you’ll remember I used to be your favorite light. But the thing about hope is that it stretches time until it almost snaps. Hours pass. Doors open. People come and go. And every time the bell rings my heart jumps like a foolish animal that still believes in rescue. But it’s never you. Just strangers. Just coworkers. Just the quiet realization that I built an entire version of today around a ghost. Still, I keep the outfit on. Because if I take it off then the illusion ends. If I change back into sweatpants and wipe off the gloss then I have to admit that the person I dressed for is not coming. And that’s the cruelest part of love, I think. How it teaches you to decorate yourself for someone who no longer lives in your life. How it turns mirrors into confession booths. How it makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you could be beautiful enough to reverse time. So I stand there in soft fabrics and soft sunlight, pretending the world is still the one where you walk in. Pretending you might still see me. Pretending my heartbeat isn’t just echoing through empty space. But the day always ends. The lights dim. The door closes. And hope finally loosens its grip on my ribs. Because the truth waits for me in the quiet of the night, whispering the only thing I cannot outrun: I got dressed for someone who isn’t coming back. And the flowers in my hair are starting to wilt. And the mirror no longer lies for me. And even though I changed my style— traded storms for sunshine, boots for soft fabrics and peace signs— some things never changed. Because when I get dressed, when I stand there trying to make the outfit perfect like it might matter if you see me— I still reach for your mom’s shoes. Every time. They don’t match the skirts. They throw off the whole look. They ruin the careful picture I tried to paint of myself. But they feel like your house, and late night drives, and the life I almost had. So I wear them anyway. And I will keep wearing them. I’ll wear them until the fabrics start loosening at the seams, until the careful stitching that holds everything together begins to fray. I’ll wear them until the threads give up their quiet grip one by one. I’ll wear them until you notice. Until you see them and realize I never stopped. Until you remember what you used to call me— your baby. You said it was my name, scrambled in your mouth. like it belonged there. Until you look down at those worn-out shoes and understand I’m still wearing them- for you.
Abbyslove
Written by
Abbyslove
18/F/Al
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 12:59 AM UTC
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