I wear anxiety like a delicately thrifted cardigan;
Something I wash before wearing it upon myself before another person,
always worrying that the stink of dust and abandonment will reach their freshly purchased nostrils.
Tying it around my waist, despite the magazines that tell me this style went out in the 90s, I cannot help but keep it on me, a buffer, an excuse for my shaking fingertips and stuttered sentences.
I can apologize for my goosebumps made of shivers and social interaction, covering it up with the thin fabric of forgotten medication, neglected therapy, and hours practicing one phone call, which I stumble through anyways.
At the end of the day, I throw it angrily onto my floor, stomping over it as I wash the dirt and hindered breathe out of my pores, willing my soap to wash this layer of my person away, but it is always there. The cardigan on my floor, waiting for my to wear it, despite the holes and uneven stitches, picked at by a stranger who wore it before me.