Your Clothes are Pink CHRISTINE FOLEY

Christine Foley

Your clothes are pink

My story is sewn into my skin. It’s tacked along the folds of flesh and the darkest secrets are stitched into the curves and creases. My story is long and complex. It makes you uneasy. Word by word, tethered at my lips. My story is happy. Scratches here and scars there. The claw of a cat, now dead. A fall in the park, a crescent moon on my knee. My story is loud. Bristling hairs, coarse and curling. Growing, unapologetic and unrepentant. My story is uncomfortable. Blood-stained thighs. Breasts that leak and pulse and throb. My story is sad. Lost parts. Lost loves. Lost children. Wetness between my legs, the dark signature of menstruation. My story is scary. You are afraid. You don’t want to hear it. So You flatten me and shave me and stuff me and clothe me. You dress me up. You drape your clothes over my shoulders, bare and raw and screaming. You zip me in. Taut and tight and restricted. You clip me, hook me, scoop me, mute me.

My story is not unique. My story is age old and living, breathing. The fabric of my dreams. My story is mine But you want to tell it.

My story is unravelling. Unidentifiable. My story is seeping into your clothes. A stain. My story is a bright red colour in a whitewash.

Your clothes are pink.