Making Room

The pair of jeans that’s never fit, too wasteful to toss it even though you know you’ll never wear it, like all those friends you exchange thumbs and hearts with on social, you throw it in the bag labeled “trash,” you throw it in there with the leopard-print bodycon dress you wore to a sorority sister’s bachelorette, she never liked that guy you were dating then, and when it fell apart with him you wanted to call her and say you were right and I’m sorry and I wish I listened to you but you never did; with the vintage sequined puff-sleeved minidress from your coke-and-Coachella days, slicked with glitter and sweat, friendships that weren’t nearly as strong as the bright lights and powder; with the ugly Christmas sweater you love unironically, a gift from your childhood bestie, although these days she’s nothing but a birthday text and a holiday card of her perfect white picket family; with the high-waisted trousers that once made you feel so grown up, your roommate in a matching pair when you lived together in that microscopic East Village apartment, cater-waitering and chasing dreams, but then she caught you passing up the wine and she had said she’s so thrilled for you she didn’t even know you were trying but now she’s just super busy these days, and you think you should probably get the hint because you’re as likely to fit into these pants as you are to be 22 again; with the yellow knit sweater that’s simply unraveling, the scent of cloves and crunchy leaves released from every unwound fiber, sleeves hanging long past your hands and you pull on the thread wondering why you’re always the one reaching out, trying to hold onto friendships long past their expiry, and the bag is hardly full at all but it’s heavy, so heavy, the crushing weight of it such that all you can do is to tie it and leave it, a lump on your closet floor mirroring the lump in your throat, and you hope the tiny heart growing inside you can’t feel the fracture of your own.

Please don’t fuck this one up, you beg of yourself, as you drape the tiny pink onesies over the bars of the freshly empty hangers.