My Friends' Clothes

A glossy cream skirt swings with each step I take, it was gifted to me by a friend I made through my sister. A deep blue green tank top hugs my torso, something borrowed that became something converted, and wrapped around my body like a blanket, a prized possession, originally belonging to a third friend, a large, pink net lace scarf. Or shawl, whichever. I am walking to the Arts and Crafts market to purchase a birthday gift for a fourth friend.

I prefer the clothes of my friends, or clothes that came from my friends. Usually, my friends have clothes I have never had, and never thought to buy. Cultural and family differences, growing up in different states, and possessing different aesthetic sensibilities ensure that our wardrobes are never identical so it is always fun to explore their closets. Kimonos, flowy black skirts, pink lace shawls, an apparently ugly top from a stepmother, a hot pink midi skirt, a thick black poncho. A friend's closet is a treasure chest. 

My clothes largely bore me for they are not gifts, they all smell of me and I know almost everything about where they have been and how they were acquired. My friend's clothes are interesting, they entice me in a manner that I can not sufficiently describe. I see my friends wear these clothes and I fall in love with the items, I want to understand why my friends trust these items enough to wear them as second skin. I want to put myself in such proximity to these items, I want to step into the position of my friends, to become them just for a little while. My clothes cannot afford me this experience; I am only closer to myself in my own clothes.

I have a reputation now. Once, Erite had to beg me to release all her clothes because she needed them on a vacation. I reluctantly returned them. Currently, I own different items of Zarah's clothing, from intimates to blazer. Things borrowed are now things converted, Olivia is on the verge of graduating and I refuse to return her clothes. I'm sure it's a bit annoying, the way I always have their clothes, the way they never know how they end up giving me so much of their wardrobe, they see it as a bad habit. Actually, it's a ritualistic practice, a form of fetish religion. It's truly unreasonable to expect me to have so many beautiful people around me and restrict myself to my own clothes. A relationship is a never ending series of exchanges and I take from these people's lifestyles, I take from their speech, from their mannerisms, from their belief systems, from their kitchens, I must take from their wardrobes as well. Everything I take is an addition to my altars. The clothes become sacraments once they pass through the doors of my house, they are reverred and exalted above all things. They are evidence of a friend's love for me and they are carriers of my friend's essence. I must, I really must, have them. When I miss my boyfriend dearly, is it my own shirt I will wear to bed? And when I desperately need confidence, how could I wrap my own shawl? I must wear Zarah's. 

My friends' clothes are some of the most important things in my possession, I'd sooner donate personal favourites than return these clothes to their true owners. It is a bit disturbing, but it is even more romantic isn't it? It is most definitely not unprecedented though. I do not expect people to relate, but I expect readers, especially if my friends are among them, to understand my behaviour. Everything I do is from a place of love :).

As always, thank you for entertaining my rubbish,

M.