WORN, NOT WASHED

The night clings to me

like fabric you refuse to wash

because it still smells like someone you miss.

There’s a tenderness in the dirt,

in the places life has worn soft —

evidence of everywhere I’ve been

and every version of me

that didn’t survive the last update.

I’m frayed at the edges,

threadbare in the corners,

but none of it feels like damage —

just history.

The kind you can touch.

The kind you can wear.

People talk about clean slates

like they’re holy,

but I’ve never trusted anything

without a few stains,

a few creases,

a few stories that don’t fold neatly.

Worn, not washed —

that’s how the truth fits best.

Some nights I feel the weight of old days

settling into my seams,

and I let it.

What’s the point of running from the past

when it stitched me into shape?

I don’t polish my memories,

don’t bleach my mistakes.

I keep them close —

soft reminders that even the roughest parts

left something warm behind.

Worn, not washed —

still mine,

still me,

still here.