Gothic Poetry

Neatly folded in the drawer

Awaiting the day I'll get to be worn

We slide into the light

My hopes get high

Is it my turn?

Is it my day?

The cardigans beside me get picked first

Then the sweats

Then the shorts

She can't decide which pair to wear 

The others get thrown back

I get yanked out

I must be her trusty pants

Without a doubt

​

-Tanya Petkau