Lying in bed

with a sweater you no longer wear. Arms wrapped around its sleeves as if you can protect it from who you are because it smells like who you used to be, and it tastes like how safety feels, how you wanted home to feel. It feels like someone you forgot to remember and you have wished to forget. It looks like all the things you had hoped to become and all the things you regret chasing. It sounds like cotton worn and torn, the scratchy realness of every time you grabbed it while running towards people you can’t see, scratchy faces from a time only vaguely remember and people who don’t wish to remember you. You sleep gripping that sweater as if it hold who you were, it can tell you your future because you can see your past self looking back at you.


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