she doesn’t fit into the same jeans
folded in the drawer in her room;
the ones with the scuffed knees
disclosing dirty bones.
She’s reached for the same clothes
in the same closet
where the monster feared most
made instruments from hangers
and hid teeth in her pockets.
Except there is no monster
but skeletons, rotten reminders
hidden carefully between coats
ugly truth in shoe-boxes
ghosts that haven’t outgrown her
like the man she turned down
or the flowers that never bloomed.