Covered Skin

I wear a bra so that I can be taped with the right manners, just like my nipples on the right cup size, and my bedroom does not smell like my character so rotten for you.

It's hard to tell if the bra is or is not a part of my body anymore. I don't remember the last time, I threw your manners into the darkness of my comfort.

I wear a T-shirt as long as the roots of your culture, which I have begun to detest. It's the holiness of my clothes that bothers me, and the branches of the same culture, reflect in my mirror, I check 1000 times before I walk out of my house.

I wear underwear, no laces, no thongs, as you would like to imagine. You see I cover myself so that no one knows the terrifying thoughts that wander with me at night. I cover because the laces bother me with slut shaming, and thongs make me feel I have no values. Even my values are marked with the kind of fabric I choose.

I wear jeans, so loose, and yet it suffocates every inch on my thigh and legs, squeezing the rush into my adrenaline. It leaves my heart pounding so fast every time someone comes close to me, that my nerves turn numb.

You see right at that moment, I forget how I have worn anything at all, or that I have anything onto me. And I never realize if I have a hand, few muscles, a voice, and covered skin.