The Abandoned Shirt: A Poem
Minding your own and doing your thing,
it’s a bland Wednesday night when you hear the ring.
You look at your phone as it blinds your eyes.
A text from your ex, what a surprise.
“I have a question, please don’t be mad…”
*you try to forget everything you both had*
“…I was looking in my closet…
….and remember that shirt?”
Here comes the wave of hurt.
“Well about that shirt, I need it back”
You brace yourself for your lengthy attack.
‘WHAT DOES HE MEAN HE WANTS HIS SHIRT?
THAT SAME SHIRT THAT I SHOULD HAVE BURNT!
DAMN THAT SHIRT. IT MEANS LESS THAN DIRT!’
But deep down you know you wanted to keep that shirt.
‘How can he have the audacity?
After all this time!
Does he barely remember me?’
This feels like a crime.
You want to lash out, tell him he’s horrible and scream.
Instead you keep your cool, you keep it clean.
You don’t want that thing anymore, it’s just sitting in your drawer.
It no longer has that romantic allure.
You do the right thing, and you dig it out.
And it doesn’t even make you want to pout.
Screw that shirt, and screw that guy.
You give it back, and then say your goodbye.