Do you remember my wool sweater:
How the fibers used to catch on your wristwatch
And tangle themselves in the buttons on your checkered shirt?
Those loose threads said what I was too afraid to—
Don't let go;
Stay just a little longer.
Fiber after fiber, they unraveled,
Until that old wool sweater was tattered and frayed and scattered—
Softly curled strings on shirt edges and neckties,
A memory begging not to be forgotten.
Even after all this time,
I'd bet you still find specks of red on your pillowcases
Or on your jacket as you ride the bus to work.
I hope you do.

His love gives me static electricity
mixed with waves of fragility
feels like my wool sweater
—so good, nothing else is better

your love is like a sweater
without it i’d be cold and bitter
please stay on me
and keep me warm
like you did that one night
when we sat beneath the moonlight
and you told me you’d be staying
here by me, with all my sad stories
the sad stories you’d keep
reminding me of all the hurt they did
you’d said you’d never leave me
and you, you never did
you always had me guessing
if i would leave you
and up in this misery
this misery that i can’t keep
because it just creates all this heat
that i take out on you
when i had too many drinks
and made a fool
and gave you two black eyes
with my fists because
i thought you knew me better
because you were always my sweater

I forgot to take my medicine.

Don't freak out, but I forgot to take my pills.

My veins are not swirling and dancing and wait actually the pills probably slow them to stop swirling and dancing so I guess now is the time for said swirling and dancing, is it not?

I can feel a bit of mania in my head, so excited and so alive and so real. I can tell because there goes periods, out the window, never to be remembered or recollected or what was I talking about?

Its twitching and hopping and like Wonderland and here we go, no ashes, just painting the roses red, painting the roses red, here comes the queen of hearts and off there goes my head, we're painting the roses red, until we end up dead.

Am I somberly manic, or maniacally somber or am i even sad? I don't know its just the twitch, I can feel it, so Chesire under my skin, the smile is coming through and my head is racing and my focus is wasting away under the hot spotlight of my own personal theater. Bravo, Grace, take a bow!

Letters and figures and math and language, so different but so funny because people speak both, why do mathematicians not count as fluent in another language, because its certainly foreign to me.

Ooh, I probably should alert the one I never expected, tell him how my head's a twitching and my fingers a fluttering and all of it a maddening. I missed this, I'd hate to admit, with the progress and the productivity and the beauty and the wonder and the land and the magic carpet ride. What land am I in again?

How funny it would be to see an intoxicated me. Am I intoxicated now? I don't know, I act like it but nothing's in my veins to even the pills am I born intoxicated, am I intoxication incarnate, am I addictive, am I a problem?

I like my sweater today, its got words that I love and words that I feel, to be or not to be, that is the question, **** it feels like I'm on fire, my limbs are burning and I am flame reborn. Maybe I should take off my hat and let out some heat, but its a pretty hat and it might feel bad if I ignore it.

Time to go back to busy life, where the life is dull and i am the fire but I love the dullness and the normativity because it involves my wonderland friends and the one I never expected. They make me happy, which lets me fly like this. The flying fire is me.

Have you grown tired of being worn?
Hung loosely without care,
I apologize for ignoring the wrinkles
on your torso like a frown forming
across the lips, neglected in ignorance
like the iron trying to iron, not on.
Do you like being worn, sweater?
the coat hanger, your straight jacket,
restraining movement, limiting use
Because your attitude tore holes in seams
disappointing my skin, breaking the warm,
Allowing the cold to break the stitches,
Slowly unraveling, but you're still here,
In the back, pondering usefulness, sweater.
I don't know if I'll see you again,
But the moth ***** are collected memories,
Patching up holes, to make you whole.

Everything in my body is weary, my bones don't feel like mine anymore, or real anymore, just simple slugs in my limbs begging me to move slowly and slime upon everything.

I'd rather hide in my sweater than face the world today, and I daren't try to hide my yawns and my sullen, sunken face, bare to the world that I am broken and sad today.

I want to be asleep, where I have a chance of waking up and this being gone. But I cannot do that, not yet, I must fight and live to die another day. How somber.

My hair is a frizzy mess and my makeup must be a disaster, I am sure. The lights dance just out of reach, out of touch, out of my way as i wander along the lonely dark path today has for me.

Tomorrow. I want tomorrow, where I can sleep and dream and beg for a life more than my own, to beg for some magic that will magic away these feelings of sorrow and unworthiness. I just want to be better.

At least my sweater keeps my cold heart warm.

The tags say, "Dry Clean Only" but I didn't have time before I left.
So now my favorite purple sweater, the one with the elbow patches, smells like you and filet mignon.
Rewind.
July:
"Congratulations, it's a match!" Reads my tinder notification.
Little did I know, I'd actually like you.
Little did I know you'd say you wanted something.
August:
I got your number, we planned on meeting up.
Our plans fell through, but we continued to talk and flirt anyways.
September:
I left for school, as did you.
Hundreds of miles away, you could tell there was something wrong through a text message.
You were there for me, everything I needed, you were it.
You told me you didn't just want someone to ****, you wanted someone to love.
October & November:
The texts dwindled down to barely any.
All I wanted was for you to respond, or finally text me first.
We planned on meeting up for thanksgiving, you ignored me.
December:
Finals week approaches and I finally hear from you again.
You want to meet up for real this time.
We say, let's meet over break.
January:
You text me, four nights before I'm leaving again.
Tomorrow? You ask me, I obviously say of course.
Terrified, I think you're going to stand me up,
but when you finally walk into the Starbucks,
my heart drops.
This is actually happening.
You come back to my place, this and that happens.
You leave.
But what I didn't think is that we'd be back at square one.
Ignoring my texts, yet snapchatting me and liking my moments.
Now:
I run to rid you from my mind.
But yet you appear so vividly and I can hear your voice saying, "are you gonna come and get it?"
Just like you said that day.
So I never had the time to dry clean my favorite sweater, so it still smells of your cologne and filet mignon.

He falls to despair.
In his mind, his foremost thought:
"Today... what to wear?"