Unraveled

I check on her from time to time. Not that I care or anything, not in the way I used to. I check on her like an old T-shirt you've crammed in the back of the drawer and forgotten about. The one that always causes the drawer to never fully close. And then every so often you reach back there, wear it around the house, close the drawer. It doesn't smell the way it used to. It smells like a drawer. It smells more and more like a shirt. And though it's something close to comfortable and even almost fits, you've outgrown it. It's wrinkled and seems to shrink around you. You begin to question if it's the color that's faded, or if your eyes are only keener, and what made you try it on in the first place, what made you buy it, why have you kept it for so long, and can't anything stop growing. She seems happy, she's lost weight, she looks worse, you feel judgmental, you remember the good times, the end, you go on what they call a "roller coaster." Maybe you turned the heat up, maybe you always sweat this much. But you look where the sleeve meets the body and you see a small hole, a pulled thread, unraveling. And it's enough of a reason to change. She's happy without you, she's living, she's growing, she's eating well apparently. There is a small sweat stain under each arm. You fold it up nicely, cram it in the back of the drawer, and forget again. It is cold outside. Days like these are made for layers.