It’s the weight of this top that’s pulling me down. The fabric
tugs at my arms, my back, my chest, waterlogged even on dry days.
A friend offered to wring it out once, they gave it back to me after an hour
with a haggard look in their eyes. ‘It’s too much. Too much for me
to bear,’ they said. I wasn’t angry. It’s hard, I know.
I’ve tried dying it, changing things up to look more cheerful.
Sewing buttons and toggles, weaving in different threads,
but it never works. It’s never satisfying. Never satisfied.
I know the only way to take it off permanently
is when it disintegrates, but it makes me feel guilty and disloyal
to think like that. It’s been there for me my whole life,
keeping me warm, protecting me. I should be there for it.
I should. Yet the weight is so much that I can barely move now.