Love always came, but never in my size.
Too big to hold, slipping through my fingers,
or too small, choking me in its seams.
I wore it anyway
patched-up apologies, sleeves too short to keep me warm,
frayed edges where promises unraveled.

I shopped for love in secondhand stores,
digging through racks of discarded affection,
trying on whispers that no longer fit their owners,
zipping myself into old vows,
hoping they'd hold together long enough
to make me feel worth keeping.

I took what I could
sweaters stretched thin by other hearts,
shirts stained with someone else’s tears,
jackets heavy with the scent of people
who were loved better than me.
Everything had holes in it.
Everything had been worn down by someone
who had never thought twice before throwing it away.

I swallowed "I love you" like bitter medicine,
taking what I could, afraid to ask for more.
Secondhand affection, stretched thin by other hearts,
never new, never mine, just borrowed warmth
from those who had plenty but spared so little.

I walked through life in shoes that never fit,
blistered heels and aching steps,
thinking pain was the price of belonging.
But love should not pinch or bruise,
should not feel like something I must shrink to deserve.

So I stand now, barefoot in my own skin,
no longer dressing in what was never meant for me.
No longer wearing love that doesn’t fit.