How do you pick what to wear the next day?
Do you pick an outfit that shows your lonely. The sadness you attempt to carefully tuck away in the morning, the sadness you cover with the concealer, trace with your eyeliner, you’ve tried to hide it, haven’t you? It still escapes, pouring through your forced smile and awkward conversations with strange men that will never call you home. They listen well enough to know when you’re horny, they call you beautiful. If they stay silent, if they listen long enough they will hear your desperation, smell it off you, strong as shisha from a magic hookah. It’s a good thing they don’t.
Do you pick an outfit that is a shameless plea for attention, because this is what you’ve been your whole life. You can’t remember a day you got up for you, it’s for these strange men, the rows of skirts small enough to show off your tight ass. The lip lick from the man in accounting, Dare from TI would linger when he passes you by the dispenser. This is all you, the desperate plea in a tight dress.
Do you pick the opposite, an outfit that hides all your woman. That hides the curves, covers up the contours, tells the truth, that you can’t ever remember being kissed like you mattered. That you’ve gone 25 years without this elusive thing called love. That you’ve been searching your whole life for a place you can be vulnerable.
Do you pick an outfit that shows how haggard and unkempt you are. That you are a place of ruin and everything you touch decays? That this isn’t just metaphors. Its Midas touch but the opposite, that you haven’t been alone from lack of trying. That men have walked in and found your insides an abandoned house, just too much effort is required and not worth the investment. That you will always be alone.
