Even His T-Shirt Was Cruel

Red.

It is
softly cotton and, I fondly imagine,
impregnated with his DNA;
his essence woven in
through one day wears,
not possible that it
would be laundered out.

Looking for a nest,
I burrowed and curled into it,
surrounded
my heat stroked flesh within it
and grasped for a familial connection,
seeking telepathy in the fibres.

The long nights found me
shrugging on this substitute
for the absent body.

For one thousand rains
I shrouded myself,
let it hold me limply,
hoping for a rescue
and some teleported happiness.

But,
I found it’s scorpion tailed label,
sliced into me.
A bitter reminder
pricking my bare hip.