Little tantrums

The heat brings with it a sartorial guessing game,

a tricky type of trivia that sits itself down on my synapses

and squashes my brain.

Playing dress up in the evenings to help stave off ill-feeling the next morning.

Planning is my greatest ally – but even then it’s not always foolproof.

One reflection glimpse sends the sufferer into a spiral

crooked, wonky, wrong parting, poor posture

a cauldron of chaos and fiery fear

dirt-ridden disarray, shame at looking a certain way

and clothes that don’t hug but rather stifle my body

clinging like skin but foreign, alien

ill-fitting except on the rarest occasions.

In summer it’s strip off time, fewer opportunities for disguise

because legs come out, shoulders bear the air upon them,

shorts cradle thighs.

Finding some thing that doesn’t light the match of disordered thinking

is near impossible. And so there’s struggle and copious online orders

to soothe and improve but it never lasts

because trick mirrors are everywhere

and my mind remains in sabotage mode.

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