It wasn’t until after you’d left

me with voices in my head,

that I found your sweater;

mutton-coloured, merino wool

folded neater than I could ever be.

I pulled it on in my haphazard,

this is why you’re not a mother way.

You would have gently sneered

as the itchy wool shuddered

over my shoulders,

juddered down my front.

It was your size yet too tight,

a collar of beaded cotton teeth

caressing my jugular

threatening consumption of anything

which made me whole.

I wore it anyway.

In solidarity with the love

I once messily kindled,

with the friendship I once tended;

as you softly brandished secateurs,

pruning to perfection

your unruly rose.

Even though it itched,

picked, at my imperfections

with a snarling grin,

I wore it for a day.

Like you, I sneered;

white claws drawing blood

from my lips.

Like you, I wore expectations

taught by an…