hold the line

there is somewhere a softer you
of cotton blankets and sentimental shit
tucked inside the sleeves of a hipster sweater;
i know it’s there (i have been peeking
between your buttonholes) but
you would rather cut me or make me itch
with your tags, you prefer shrinking
as i wash you in love growing cold (to conserve energy)
to warming me with all the wool
clouding my vision. i thought we were
matched– i myself am worn jeans–
but you want that funky dress in the window
to cover with your folds,
and my zipper’s stuck on the fence
where you placed me to wait.


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