By: Emanuela Gallo
The remnants of my girlhood
sits in a plastic bag in my basement;
there lies the beige tank top with knots for straps
and a peace sign at its middle,
along with the patterned pants I never knew what to match with,
and the floral skirt I wore on my 13th birthday;
There also is the fuscia pink off-the-shoulder top,
the first I ever owned,
that I wore to a friend’s house on summer day
feeling like the coolest girl in the room
along with two sparkly grey jean skirts
that were essential in my sister and I’s
matching outfits on an early 2010s new year’s eve
and the black and white dress I felt overdressed in
at a Christmas party during my first year of high school,
a holdover from my preteen shame
the cotton, the clothes that I once wore
like armor protecting my skin
is packed tightly and neatly in this bag
waiting to be donated and take on new life
in the arms of another girl,
ready for new memories to be stitched into the fabric
and a myriad of emotions to be embroidered into their edges
