I had a shirt

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