White tees. Tank tops. Bare arms.
Thoughts trail backwards—
my thinking cap worn in reverse.

I reach for a verse.
...but my Bible
is well-dressed in dust.

Some days I wear faith
like a sweatshirt— soft at first,
until pressure pulls at every fibre
and I want it off.

Peeling pride from my chest
should feel freeing—
...instead, I feel naked
in ways fabric never fixed.

Rags &amp; Expensive tags —
another kind of poor.

Time wears us all thin, while we
keep wearing life’s heavy clothes—
stitched with ego, tailored by fear.

Dressed to survive.
...quietly undressed by truth.