I remember you. I remember the way you felt – hot in my hands as I pulled you out from among the others. I remember slipping you on, your colors & texture matching my mood. You disappeared in all the right places, allowing me to complement you while also using you to complement myself. I remember stepping into a different kind of unknown – one I wasn’t afraid of. My excitement was building as I surveyed each angle, you, like a prism, reflecting and shining colorful beams, bouncing off the walls as I walked through the room. The swish and sway of your hem matched my eager yet dependent motions. You could not move without me doing so. In the same way, I was weak without you; my movements were simply a response. We moved together in synchronicity, waves of excitement rolling over my tongue during this taste test. As an attention getter, you understood my surface aim: to be noticed, to be seen. He saw me. Your playful waves ruffled between my fingers as your colors bled onto my face. Red hot. So much was left unsaid, but our eyes spoke for us. He saw what we meant. It seemed the same for him as well. It wasn’t until we were beginning to disrobe that he realized it – his insides did not match the fabric I had seen initially. It had only covered him, kept him warm. And now the seams were ripping and he wasn’t ready to be naked. He wasn’t ready.

So we put more on. I wore understatements – a hint of cream-colored lace – I was without hope. I no longer pulled out the attention-getter, especially not for him. For a long while, he wore it all – confusion. His colors bled onto mine at first, the patches melding with my stitched up coats, until finally… the process had begun again.

Tentatively, I retrieved the strap of my attention-getter. My red hot. I let my fingers ruffle the hem again. I let my eyes sparkle. And I let him place his hand on mine, and begin, with my help, to slowly slip the strap off of my shoulder. I looked up at him. I could feel the heat emanating from his palms as he began to undress me.

I reached for him. He allowed my sweaty, shaky palms to grasp his sleeves. We pushed them off together. And from that moment, we simply began to shed.


2 thoughts on “Sewn (By Samantha Davis)

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