Your two shirts should protect you.
The one that we know;
the one that you put on
for strangers
with its nonchalant simplicity
Is the chain mail.
You walk away,
Away
with no swords drawn.
It is always a draw.
The one beneath,
a receptacle
for the sweat,
for the sadness,
for the anger.
Your righteous indignation
channeled
away from who you think you are.
It is our undershirt
that bespeaks our truth.
That second shirt,
that pit smell
of a long day worked,
smells better than
silly perfumed fantasy.
We should wear one shirt,
our own,
the one that smells like us,
the one that smells
of our desire.