#sweater
And one day
This curse of forgetfulness will be a blessing
Cause you won’t remember who said they’d come by
You’ll only feel the loneliness tapping on the window
Watching you fold away like origami
Smaller and smaller you shrink
Until they fold your sweaters away and stash them in the attic
Only stumbling on them when looking for Christmas lights
Your favorite time of year
Where they fold paper and ribbons and your sweater
May 22
May 22, 2026 at 6:26 PM UTC
“why do you keep wearing sweaters
when it’s so hot outside?”
she asks it innocently
offhandedly
without any weight to her words
not realizing the significance
of the answers i can't give
because the heat
is easier to take
than the side-eyes
or the questions
or the attempts to help
because i prefer being uncomfortable
to admitting how much i'm hurting
and i don't want to explain
the evidence of my mind's betrayal
scratched across my skin
because the white lies
are much more digestible
than the messy
broken
painful truth
instead, i just say
"i dunno"
and keep hiding the scars
underneath my
sweaters
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 12:11 PM UTC
I didn't realize it was sweater weather,
In mid-July, in the center of the summer.
It never did make sense to me;
Why would you put yourself through suffering?
Those long, drapey sleeves that fall past your fingers,
Of those soft, lovely hands that I often try to hold,
But when I do, you pull away like I'm contagious with the flu,
And I feel ashamed.
One day, when it wasn't sweater weather,
I took matters into my own hands.
I bounded over, a devious grin on my face,
And did something I'd soon regret.
I pulled up those sleeves,
Insisted that you'd get far too hot,
And what I found was a secret,
Across your arm, in spots.
You pulled away from me,
Hurt evident in your eyes.
You yelled at me,
But I was still surprised.
You said, "I hate you!"
And then walked away.
That's the last time I saw you,
At least for several days.
When the fall arrived, along with sweater weather,
I gently meandered to your home.
Whether you wanted me there or not,
I wouldn't let you be alone.
Your mother let me in,
Said that you'd never left your room,
So I walked up the stairs,
My heart breaking in two.
I opened the door,
And before you got the chance to do,
What you felt like you deserved to do,
I stopped you.
I held your hands, and you didn't pull away,
I leaned my head against your shoulder.
Tears streamed like a torrent had burst free,
My heart, crushed by a boulder.
I looked into your eyes, as you did mine,
And we talked, really talked, for the first time,
Since I can remember...
I stood outside your window, wearing a sweater,
The one that you got me, that I'll keep forever.
I saw the smile on your face, barely contained.
You came outside and hugged me, so earnestly.
Now that it was sweater weather,
We could weather the storm,
Together...
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 10:01 PM UTC
Ah I feel so much better
All I needed was my sweater
In this super cold weather
Brrrr!!
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 11:33 AM UTC
"happy heather day!" I say and smile
but deep inside I wanted my own sweater to be hers
I wanted to be that "heather" so bad
even if that heather wasn't her true love
the feeling that someone else was laying on her
for temporary comfort made me sick
its not like I could stop her
I know she loves me
at least I hope
but sometimes I wished that temporary "heather"
that you pretended was me
wouldnt take you away from me
Dec 3, 2025
Dec 3, 2025 at 12:53 PM UTC
Frigidity wounded the tender palms,
numbness nestled in beards,
crystals of snow hung from her earrings;
all now photographs that have creased.
The souls stare into the windows once mistaken for walls,
recalling their shadows chained to the stagnant snow,
but the seasons are meant to spiral,
and amidst the mosses osculated by winters,
there bloomed petals adorned by renewal.
Some cling tight to the yarn,
afraid of pointed crystals shredding the weave,
while some recall the cold, garbed in a tender sweater —
the tender sweater spun by bleeding hands,
pricked by needles and lost amongst the threads.
Once one with the pine tree,
trembling in a blizzard,
they now converse of and with past,
clad in fabrics of rejuvenation.
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 11:05 AM UTC
You told me
my sweater was ugly
but it's you
who's ugly
on the inside.
Feb 5, 2025
Feb 5, 2025 at 1:18 PM UTC
I wrapped myself
in your old sweater;
it wasn't the same.
I smelt your perfume,
the scent of sweet jasmine
had turned bittersweet.
I whispered your name too,
I wanted to find comfort
in your empty arms,
but its softness is now
just a ghost of you.
©️Lizzie Bevis
Nov 10, 2024
Nov 10, 2024 at 2:26 AM UTC
if hoarders build cities
towers of trinkets
at the age of six
i made up meadows
hills made of sweaters
grass made of wool
with flowers of checkers
At the age of twelve
it seeped through vents
it pulled me in closer
when mum had left
grief popped up like clover
so i'd open my closet
and sit with her sweaters
imagine those meadows
grass made of wool
with flowers of checkers
now at twenty six
finally i get it
grief is my fabric
before I was 'me'
i was a stormy sea
or mums knit sweater
passed down to me
from nineteen ninety three
mums knit sweater
cradling her baby
dampened wool from tears
as the war waged on
she lost track of years
smiling against fury
covering little ears.
Sep 13, 2023
Sep 13, 2023 at 1:12 AM UTC
Haven with eyes closed.
If it was.
Washing dirt.
***** socks.
Tea.
Missing fish.
Say it without.
Pebbles, massacre.
******
Because I...uh.
Stringy hair.
Forgettable.
Rocking back and forth.
Back and forth.
Dramatic but it fits.
Garrett Johnson.
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 2:40 PM UTC
𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎,
𝙰 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚐; 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎.
𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚗,
𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚗.
𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛,
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚡, 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛.
𝙾𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎, 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚢.
𝙳𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚝.
𝙸 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚗,
𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚗.
𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑,
𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛,
𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛.
𝙰 𝚃𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎,
𝚁𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎.
𝙼𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚗,
𝚁𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜.
𝙷𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚠𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍
𝙸 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎!
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 9:33 AM UTC
So I'm sitting at my kitchen table.
Right?
And I'm watching the folklore long pond studio sessions.
And drinking peppermint tea.
And I have a big fluffy sweater wrapped around me. (not THE cardigan. I get that on Christmas.)
And it's just so aesthetically pleasing.
Like, I'm watching the folklore long pond sessions,
and drinking tea
and I'm wrapped in a sweater.
Is there anything more "folklore-ish" than that?
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 7:39 PM UTC
in a sense we're just a present tense expulsion
Refuting the rhythms, playing escapism
Thr'out's weaving flawless textures
Mapping exact, luminous essence of gold
Purity reign,
process.
symbol.
inferred.
--So it's like, no matter whom or what, we happen upon is a reference and different aspect of yrself, having its own experience. Trying to figure out certain levels of understanding, depending on their function of balance.
That's a mighty sweater
to be displaying on that pop-up ad.
And it's a ****** shame, somethings
even have to be mentioned
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 9:18 PM UTC
After the end of cold evening
I pull through the sleeves of my sweater
Keep my hand wrapped around my coffee
Get ready to dive into a new adventure
The book resting on the table
The one who'd keep me up till early morning.
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 3:11 PM UTC
the soft pull of you
fabric across my skin
pulled over my head
with rolled sleeves
you keep me warm
tucked into your folds
burrowing down softly
a comfort like no other
Jun 15, 2020
Jun 15, 2020 at 10:41 PM UTC
I miss you in ways I'm still learning to articulate
like maybe the sea misses it's purity
or your sweater misses the way my shoulders held it
the grass misses the sun's light when night falls
and in the same way the dirt on the ground wonders if it will ever feel warmth again
I miss you as though you're never coming back
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 5:33 PM UTC
A sweater I put on, worn and worn.
To keep me safe, to keep me warm.
The outside soft, the inside thorns.
Tempting is, my love forlorn.
The sweater stays, ripped and torn.
For lost labors that I mourn.
A love has died, a love is born.
Hopeless is, my love forlorn.
To be so close, yet all so far.
I cannot reach, yet here you are.
I cannot leap, the jump's too hard.
Forlorn love tears us apart...
Disdainful tears, that mark my cheeks.
My helpless world, is far too bleak.
Without my strength I seem so meek.
Forlorn love makes me feel weak.
A sweater I put on, worn and worn.
To keep me safe, to keep me warm.
Love is pain, and love is scorn.
Wretched is, my love forlorn.
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 11:15 PM UTC
why do I find so much
emotional comfort
in a sweater
that represents so much
hate
things just don't
add
up
why won't they just let
me
be
angry for
once
Nov 16, 2019
Nov 16, 2019 at 3:20 PM UTC