tagphobia.

there she is. sitting comfortably on the white plastic hanger in my mother’s crowded closet… pressing against a white-powdered Rebecca Taylor, blissfully opening the left-side of her blouse for some air; hiding behind a bright orange retro cami top illuminating the New York black and grey mix; admiring the red carpet couple of an ironed-clean Theory blazer wrapping her sleeve around a Pink Tartan silver shift dress, too shy to show off her elegance… there she is.

she sits there on that white plastic hanger in my mother’s closet. a virgin, never worn, never touched, fully armored and protected by a single plastic thread hidden inside the collar, behind the BCBG tag. dazzled by her simplicity, i grab hold of the hanger, carefully pulling her out of the crowded New York black and grey mix.  i set her on my bed to get ready for our special night.

make up on, hair is up.  standing in my room sporting a sheek Battle Ready Armor and American Eagle polka-dot boy shorts, i stare at this plastic thread hidden inside the collar, behind the BCBG tag.  to cut or not to cut?  i pick up the dress and think to myself, “maybe ill put her on first, just to see how i’ll look”.  i pause, “maybe not” and put her back down.  what’s wrong with me? back to the drawing board. baby blue shorts and black speghetti strap tank under a comfortably worn-in hoodie. i leave behind my simple dress, armored and protected by a single plastic thread,… and head out for pizza.