I feel so insecure with my wardrobe. I don’t own anything proper and nice. My only pair of jeans is ripped on the thighs and I all my tank tops are in some way or form stained. I don’t own nice dresses, or dress shirts, or basically anything that would be proper for an interview or performance. Heck, all of my bras have fallen apart, are fraying, and held together by my own patchwork sewing.
I know I am more well off than a lot of people. I recognize my privilege and how much better I have it than some. I am able to pay my rent and afford food for each week. I just can’t help but be severely insecure in how I dress, and my self esteem takes low blows when I am unable to present myself in a clean, professional manner.
It’s hard, man.
Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.