The Hoodie I Put On When I’m Not Okay

I have a hoodie

I only wear on days when the air

Feels too sharp for skin.

It used to be navy,

now it’s that tired, almost-black

You get from too many spins

in cheap detergent

and late-night decisions.

The cuffs remember

Every time I chewed them instead of speaking.

There’s a stain near the pocket—

tomato soup or heartbreak,

I honestly forgot which came first.

I pull it on like a weather report:

100% chance of hiding,

scattered motivation,

emotional wind advisory in effect.

The hood is a portable cave.

I disappear into it

on video calls,

tilting the camera just high enough

they see “busy,”

not “barely here.”

Once, someone said,

“You always wear that when you’re tired.”

I almost told them—

no, not tired,

just… leaking.

Like the day is a roof

I keep putting off repairing.

Inside the front pocket:

old receipts, a dead hair tie,

a folded note that just says

“Remember to breathe”

in my own handwriting,

like a stranger trying to help.

I tell myself I should throw it out,

buy something brighter,

something Instagram would approve.

But I don’t.

Because this hoodie knows

where all my soft parts live,

and somehow

keeps them from falling

straight through the floor.

I don’t have an ending for this—

only that tonight

I’ll hang it on the back of the chair

instead of the bed,

just in case

tomorrow’s air

is a little easier to touch.