Clean the cobwebs out of your ears, my dear,
you are putting yourself back together
and I want you to hear me as I say this:
you are ready to step into yourself
like the coming of fall: wind-swept leaves
dampened by soft rain: it cannot wait.
You are the clothing piled in your arms: a shedding,
sequin-encrusted jacket, last year’s bucket hat, an unpaired shoe.
Take yourself home, get dry cleaned, wear yourself out for every second
that you can. People will ask where you found such a thing,
and even if you tell them, they won’t understand.
You were there all along, twisting aimlessly in someone else’s closet, or folded up
under a stranger’s bed. You were there all along but you weren’t yours.
Until one day, a previous owner realized who they were and cast you out into the donation bin,
into an endless sea of worn clothing drooping on hangers.
So that one day you could happen upon yourself in a thrift store, and suddenly understand
how to mend all the loose strings hanging off your hollow body.
So that one day you could wear yourself and wear nothing, wear an outfit
no one else would ever put together.
So that one day you could see yourself like I do.
