it’s an old coat, worn, patched
and a little tight under the arms
and I slip into it with ease
having worn it many times
it’s very greyness,
blandness,
a pathetic disguise;
a futile defence
I stand,
transgressed,
compared,
ignored
I freeze,
hiding in plain sight
until her anger is spent.
then, bored
she diverts
herself
with something else.
who does she see?
What does she hear?
not me
but when I try to take off the coat
I discover
the lie is melded to me
its heaviness choking me
and now
I tweezer off patches
discovering
myself
raw, tender, and bare
Rena Z