Black and cotton, without embroidery or ruching or anything to run the pad of my thumb over. It reaches my ankles and covers the tops of all my shoes, drowning out the lace and floral designs that always trace my calf and my bones. The length is safe, I don’t have to worry about anything riding up too far and revealing the hurried results of my mind. The waist fits with an odd snugness that grapples me in the middle if I dare to lean forward too far, keeping my back rigidly straight. It chokes my breath each time I scribble mindlessly in a notebook, etching thoughts to myself that I can’t say aloud and have a sickly awareness of. I use a brass folding knife to slice through the paper of my book, to separate my words to myself from the eyes of others. It leaves square chunks missing, but chunks are better than whole pages. Chunks are always better than whole pages.
Author Notes: Any comments/suggestions are always appreciated! Thank you :)
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United States • 18 years old