At the Seams
FJ Morris | Sayantan Halder
He found me in near-mint condition, left on the hanger. I wasn’t looking for a home, just the odd wardrobe change. But he folded me up in his arms, ironed me out with warmth and sewed up my tears. I stretched over his chest, close to his heart, protecting him from the cold.
But the wringer has worn me thin, and I’m sure he’ll drop me soon; a charity-shop case. But he doesn’t. Even though I have unraveled around him and can’t hold him anymore, he still clasps onto the last piece of thread I have left.