Gray Sweater

This gray sweater is a sour reminder of the holes in my life. It is not charcoal, nor navy. It is an overcast of thread. It hangs off of me like tears slipping off the tip of my nose. It’s loosely crocheted edges likely to unravel; beads of thread taking refuge on the sleeves, like doubt on a drowning relationship. Like his voice, it cradles me with a sting so rapid, inflicted by empty promises. Love for it is not in question. There are simply no words. No honesty. Only select facts fit for digestible conversation and easy exits. Only vice-like truths that wrap around my stomach, so brutal and stubborn that change is a distant memory.

Someone once said that the road to Hell was paved in intentions. But I challenge, and I’ve said this before, that while the road to Hell carries the burden of intentions never acted upon, the road to Heaven is lit with their poor implements. My fingers are so cold, dancing upon this lonely keyboard, attempting to pacify the torrential downpour of baggage beneath my eyes, distract from the electrical charge pulsating through my body, comfort the sadness in my posture.

This gray sweater coos with its soft fibers, but only a fool would find warmth between the holes that interrupt its functionality. It begs me to wear it with pride and find comfort in its embrace. Its fidelity to me has earned a less deserving loyalty. Yet, I shiver beneath its threads time and again. So, it is no surprise that when it’s lynched in the closet by way of a wire hanger, so carelessly, there is a part of me that snickers at its humiliation. I shrug at the snags created by careless tending. Allowing it disentangle in memory of my skinned trust.