Poetry (words)

My jeans

My jeans are too big, but I like the way they don’t fit. I’m constantly pulling them up. I could wear a belt, but I like how they fall. Never completely, how they cling to my hips like they know I will catch them. 

The bottoms have frayed because they drag on the ground. They get caught in my flip-flops. When I stand I always have on hand in my pocket, but only in these jeans. Half holding them up and half pulling them down. 


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