There is a reason
the clothes in my closet
hang motionless.
Dresses that don’t
flatter anybody,
skirts that don’t know
how to live.

They are
hard to clean,
easy to get dirty.
Uncomfortable.
They are special,
when in reality,
there is nothing extraordinary
about them.

They have no memories
except quiet graveyards,
fake smiling,
and people
I don’t really like.

If I were my clothes
I would not want
to hang in the closet,
Dignified, beautiful,
and jealous.

I would want
thrown on the floor,
stuffed in the dresser.
Smiling and blushing
with dirt stained memories,
wrinkled love.