So you want to get in my pants

 

I once had a pair jeans which, every time I put them on
and felt them slide over my thighs,
felt like I was sheathing a weapon.
I don't know why, but they made me feel strong
and confident enough in my own strength to be unafraid
of where others' thoughts and hands may like to roam.
They made me feel powerful,
like I could crush all the fear and opposition
or like I could trust my own legs
to run and carry me away from it all.

But they were dark blue jeans in a faded fabric and pre-stressed denim world.
My jeans were a blank canvas
and a target
and it was a world which made me feel shame
for being unable to afford the uniform of teenagerhood.

So I sliced into them, and unwove the fabric.
Thread by thread I took my jeans apart
until it was too late to turn back
and I realized their power had drained
through stylish fraying holes.
Worst of all, they still stood out,
they were still a target,
and now had nothing in the way of defense to offer.

They were only jeans now, and putting them on did nothing
but clothe me and remind me of what I had ruined
in my useless dash to a uniformity
I would never obtain
to appease a world that wouldn't have me.