The lady with the holes in her top
I know why they are there, those two tiny holes. I know that you cut out the label from your top. I know that you did that for comfort and for relief.
It’s not vanity, hiding your unbranded attire or denial at the size tag that led you to do it. It’s discomfort. It’s pain.
It’s a small piece of thread and four pointy corners, stitched in to your clothes at the most sensitive parts of your body.
Holes in the back of your top, beneath the neck-line. Holes in the lower left hand side of the outfit, vest, jeans or fitted dress. If them holes weren’t there, there would be a massive spiky knife edge digging in to your flesh. While you gently try to shift the fabric around, loosen its grip on your body, ignore the irritant but unwillingly strike your fingers nails across the area like matches across sandpaper, unwittingly creating a raw red patch of numbness, in an attempt to lessen the over sensitive skin.
Most of my clothes have holes in them. At just the same place in each garment. No matter how old or new, they are signifiers to an untold story. A body of unexplained itching, intense reply scratching and an eternity of reddy purple blotches from anxiety or enthusiasm.