The Pain of Wearing Blue

I choose a pale blue coat.
I carry it home nervously.

There has to be one coat that doesn’t end up in a green carrier bag with my shoes.

My fingers sweat around the handles of the plastic bag.

I am uncomfortable with this.
The colour.
The weight.
Cool light cotton.

I wear it.
In the afternoon.
When the sun is out.

I tug at the hems.
Plunge my hands into the tiny pockets.
Wish for it to turn black.

I walk fast through the car park.
To avoid being seen.

I could cry.
I do not like how this coat feels.

I take it off when I get home.
I feel sick.
Stupid.

I hunt in the rubbish bin for the receipt but it is covered in jam and tea.
I cannot take this decision back.

I sit down.
Try to ignore it.
But it stares at me from its hook in the hall.
Like a pin prick.
But not so nice.

I hate this coat.

I fill up black bags.
Make space for this new mistake.

Each piece of clothes falls into the bag like a piece of time lost.
The sound of my decompensation.
Like the nail clippings in the chiropody clinic falling in the tray.
Making me heave and wake up.

I file away this blue coat.
Settle my arms and bloated body into familiar black sleeves.
To hide is to be free.

The blue coat will remain untouched.

It will not fall into a green carrier bag with my shoes.