The chill of the wind has crept inside
between the seams in these old walls.
The damp is even inside the sheets,
which cling like sodden shrouds,
and my chest has gone crystalline and cold.
I wear a coat that is dirty
and only just too tight.
Sweat gathers under the seams.
I am always too hot
and it weighs me down.
It clings in the wrong places
and I trip and can barely walk.
The sleeves catch my coffee cup,
but no one can see the stains.
The buttons never fit in their beds,
and I am so often confused.
On the days I can peel it off,
its damp has seeped into my skin
and into my hair like stale cigarette smoke
and it leaves little spiders on every dress I own.