by Romina Ramos
You might understand,
if you’d ever had to play mouse
in the middle, while your school pals
spun you round and threw unwanted
Nikes and Adidas trackies at you.
You would know why I am
so defensive over my favourite hoodie,
why I keep my trainers in their boxes,
match my bandanas and socks.
Fashion was just another currency
I did not have growing up.
Another language I did not speak.
Brands were lands I was foreign in.
When I say what is mine is yours
I mean it, but I cannot share my identity.
My clothes look good on you,
but it is still like an artist in a poet’s skin
and we are not an ekphrastic poem.
What I mean is that my body
is your new home, the fire lights in the pit
when you come inside. Each of these
rooms are as yours as you are mine.
Just know this, if on a blue night you see
a little light peeking through the crack
under the door, note the sign on the knob
the walk-in wardrobe is out of bounds.