golden shovel for the plaid uniform skirt i got second hand after katy perry

the first time i

put you on i thought about all the seats this skirt has kissed,

the thighs brushed, stairs climbed, spills stamped out, a

whole evolution lived before you lived in my closet. i imagined another girl,

wrapping, buttoning you, brushing wrinkles from you, and

cried. what if i am nothing but another ass covered, useless in making, i

may never do anything worth writing down, liked 

by perhaps more than one on days i choose to believe it.

i saw your green and yellow reflected back at me, bathroom mirror still foggy, the

distortion of my hips hidden beneath polyester pleats. i could taste

the potential of a nameless future, asked how many times new buttons had been sewn on? of

course mother who bled onto mending fabric said we were all special, perhaps her

belief was correct. i was bloated when i put you on the first time, freshman year, still cherry

cheeked and hoping to be remembered, hoping to be noticed wearing peppermint chapstick.