It doesnt fit
Theres an itch,
like a wrong suit and I'm pulling at the sleeves
To relieve the wrong ness,
Because it shouldn't hurt this much.
It shouldn't look like hand me downs and disaster,
like patches and a picked at lack-lustre lie
But it is, and I sit in it like the youngest.
Not my style, not my choice
Not my face or how I feel
This unrealness is someone else's.
The pattern is loud, proud of its garish
Flambouyance, as it shows off the ache
The geometric shape of my sharpness
Against the soft of sad
How it frames the sag around my shoulders.
If only I were older,
And time could take in the waist
Sew the hems and make
Me fit
Somehow this is my skin
How am I supposed to wear it?
