my mother told me
to wash that old tshirt
she said it was time
I'd worn it a few days
but I couldn't
because that night we were together
I wore it
it held my body
as my hands traced yours
gently, because you
couldn't reach the sunburn
on your back
it was a gateway for your fingers
lightly tracing up and down my back
pulling the worry from my skin
dissolving all my fear
it was the only thing
between your arms and my skin
when you held me as we slept
and I felt safe, secure
so I tell my mother no
I can't wash the tshirt
because it is the only physical reminder
of my safe haven
YOU ARE READING
Brain Dump
PoetryIf I write a poem, it goes here. A collection of thoughts, dreams, fears, and whatever else I see in my brain. TW: mentions of sexual assault, suicide, depression, anxiety, self harm
