I had a shirt
I bought it in Paris, on a market stall. I bought it alongside a pair of gold earrings and a pair of shorts that didn't fit.
I bought a shirt.
It had stripes, black and white. Cropped sleeves to the elbow, a length that sat comfortably below my waist when I work a tank top.
I had a shirt.
I took it travelling with me. I packed it in bags, took it to Toronto and brought it with me on my search for a life that I could never really have.
I took a shirt.
I wore it in the hope that I could somehow, someway, make the pain of my condition and the self-hatred of my addiction go away.
I wore my shirt.
It got dirty, it got stained. It got torn and frayed and I convinced myself I didn't need it anymore because, after all, it was just a shirt.
But the pain of my condition, the humiliation and shame of my addiction didn't go away.
Not like my shirt
