When I Die, Please Come for my Clothes

When I die, please come for my clothes.

Please come for those wisps and tufts, for all of the stuff

stuffed deep in my closet; please come for all of it.

Please come for my ripped blue jeans, the ones

that were frayed at the seams, the ones

that were so clearly gay; the ones that I wore

just to not have to say it.

Please come for my cinnamon sandals, completely worn out

from me giving you my angles. Please come for my bangles,

the gold ones, my makeup. Please come for my cover-up,

the cause of our break-up.

Please come for my crop-top, but don't box it up,

don’t store it in the dark, the red one, just wear it,

your scent is still on there, I could barely bear it. And pair it

with my over-sized, swamp green pants, the ones that at first,

I really couldn’t stand, but that somehow, over time, seemed to stretch

out my stride, seemed to lengthen my gait, seemed to change me inside.

Please,

come for my clothes when I die, sized perfectly to fit me but never quite mine.

Loved too late, from collar to hem, not because of their look

but your look when I'm in them.