Have You Tried the Thrift Store?

Colour-coded racks of memories belonging to fabricated realities.

I flip through camisoles like leafing through chapters of my diary,

Trying to understand who I was, who I am, who I want to be.

Blocked her, blunt demeanour, blah, blah, blah, blonde is in.

Trying on seven shirts, seven stories, seven lives not mine,

Embodying the wrinkles and creases of a stranger’s past.

Four dollars and a quarter; a small price to pay for a sewn-in persona.

A borrowed stifled scent flooding my bloodstream, becoming my own.

My wardrobe scattered on racks with orange price tags, five versions of myself ago, 

It calms me to know others search for who I was, who I wasn’t, who I tried to be.

Sometimes I pick myself up, forgetting I tried her on already, putting me back with sour lips.

Have you tried the thrift store? People say. I am littered across the aisles, every single one of me.