I planned out my night.
Going out to a gathering with friends.

I look around my room.
What a mess.

I don't feel so happy right now.

So I start cleaning.
Make my bed.
Take out my clothes for the night.
Grey shirt.
Black carpenter's pants.
My best red checkered shirt.

My only red checkered shirt...

Red and white socks.
My watch, two hair elastics, two rings, three pins, one hat.

I shower away all the grime and grease.
Tidy up my look as I put on the clothes.
Putting on my signature hat and attaching the pins to my shirt.

I look...okay.

I lace up my buffed up red shoes and take my car and drive off to wherever I'm going.

It's supposed to be a great night out.

Until I go home to cry away the pain.

I'll enjoy myself.
I'll do something.

Anything.

A spell of handsomeness
into a zipper tonight
that harrow mist there fraught
why hers is sheer
a fascinating whim
both together though hardly a tack
in a bed of satin.  Alas

You come home from work.
Late, without a reason,
holding a bottle of overpriced wine in your hand
and no smile on your face.

You get rid of all your clothes, you
open the bottle and you
start closing your mind
and your soul.

You start up the fire and make your
own little ****** barbecue
with whatever leftovers you can find in your
landlord's fridge.

Tomorrow you'll work from home,
but you will still get back late.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3gI5SSAyl0

Can you smell the decaf
in coffee breath

or palpate the aesthetic in
clothes bought
secondhand

the former amidst
those groaning to work
praying to caffeine gods
to jolt nerves into existence

the latter walking through shopping malls
spying the guise on mannequins
without frays and tears
mocking the Dickensian reflection.

Is the placebo
the one without the caffeine rush
and the credit card debt

or is it the one
who believes it will all
make them happier in
the end.

She smiles like a Cheshire Cat,
And it makes me laugh to think of how she sways her hips, walking away while looking back, like a professional acrobat.

"Live with me! I'll cook for you!"

The cologne
      of her ex
             on her skin,
                  
as she coos
          into my ear,
                    "Oops,
                            
                              dropped my phone."

She bends her neck to let me see her *******
(which jiggle as she giggles at a joke I never said)

I don't trust her. Not at all.

But I'm flattered by her clear attempt to sell me in the mall.
Maybe it's Maybelline,
Maybe it's methamphetamine
(Or the bruises on her arm)
Or her pupils stretched with a line,
Of black paint past her felonies,
Past the "no trespassing" sign.
Past her oceanic iris,
Curving to her brow,
Like a coy, reserved, egyptian lynx,
Poised while on the prowl.
Maybe it's her melancholy glance,
Sent off towards some memory,
Of a redwood where she kissed-
How she looks away when she sits,
To my left,
her eyes, motioning
to some tempting offscreen thing...

I don't know what drug she worships,
But it's got her shivering.

"I love you like I love rock music
           (But keep your clothes on)
I love you like I love the Steinhart aquarium,
           (But keep your clothes on),
I love you like I love the cinema,
           (But thanks for the compliment)"

I found myself hugging my closet this morning
I got up, walked over to her, stood in front of her and stuck my hands between some things hanging,
Put my cheek against the cold plastic of the hangers, and it felt right

Now this sounds strange
But something became quite clear to me when I felt like my closet was hugging back
It's not the things you wear, it's how you wear them
My closet loves me because I wear my clothes freely
I never wore them to please anyone else
That's why when he told me he wanted me to wear something else I said, "No."
Because my fashion is a part of me and it has been
Whether I was in the fourth grade, wearing my lily pad skort, pink Mary Janes and a neon green top
Or in college,
Unapologetically sporting my baggy white tee, ripped jeans, Birkenstocks and socks
I will not submit to you

My clothes love me back because I am not afraid
My closet hugs me back because she knows that I will never again let a man tell me
"That's ugly."
My fashion is my power.
Let it ring from every tower, you will not tell me what I can put on this body ever again
My body is my temple, and it was not built on your land so you can
Shove it

-E (c) 2017

Clothes may make a man,
Or, indeed, any woman,
Do you frock up to delight?
Are you a vampire of the night?
Do you look good? Perhaps,
Strut your stuff, chicks and chaps,
You wait till you get old,
You're invisible, you're told,
So, enjoy being young, so clever,
Bad luck, youth does not last ever!