I put on clothes and they decide before I do.
I let them.
No.
They already decided.
I'm just catching up.
This shirt says something I didn't rehearse.
This jacket interrupts me.
I change.
I change again.
I stand there too long.
A sleeve feels wrong.
Wrong like a sentence that keeps meaning something else.
Cut is grammar.
Grammar is punishment.
I keep breaking it to see who notices.
Color is mood.
Mood is unreliable.
Color stays.
I trust color more than myself.
Fit is whether I'm safe.
Fit is whether I'm believed.
Fit lies.
I dress like I'm editing an apology I never sent.
Too loud.
Too quiet.
Delete.
Undo.
Labels itch.
Someone else named this.
Someone else touched it first.
Uniforms terrify me.
Costumes calm me down.
Tailoring feels like consent I didn't give.
Trends move faster than my thoughts.
By the time I wear them, they're already laughing.
Designers write rules.
I misread them on purpose.
Then I pretend it was art.
The same outfit means power at night
and suspicion in daylight.
I notice.
I catalog.
I never forget.
I break rules to feel real.
Then panic because I was seen.
Fabric remembers bodies.
Fabric remembers work.
Fabric remembers who wasn't allowed.
I check if I'm allowed.
I wear it anyway.
I change clothes when my language fails.
When my face says too much.
When silence won't stop talking.
I can't stop communicating.
Even standing still.
Even wrong.
Fashion is the sentence I keep rewriting
because if I stop
someone else finishes it for me.