let down by her.
i mourn all of the bad times i wore it during. not because i am sad to see them go, but because they have never passed. they’re still with me, stuck to this stupid piece of clothing, like burrs that i can’t shake off and whenever i try to brush them off, they just prick me all over again.
and i mourn myself. i mourn the parts of me that got chipped away during all of those bad times i wore it during; parts that i may never get back.
there’s a list of ways in which i wish i felt “normal,” like i imagine other people might. today 