THREADCOUNT

Ten Years

She wears the same bra every day, whispered the girl who has a baby now in that teal locker room, and I could hear the laughter carry through air tight with bleach (never enough to mask first periods, fear sweat) and it wasn’t true, it was sometimes true, it was me hating the neon fitting room and grabbing four of the plainest things, hoping for refuge in repetition, and when I saw the pictures of the baby I imagined  mommy’s lacy thongs stained with discharge, exhaustion-popped elastic, bras soaked with milk and spit and I don’t even wear bras now or shave my legs or paint my nails and is that vomit on your sleeve, old friend, are those the same sweatpants you wore yesterday?