You tug at the sleeves of your sweatshirt while curling your hair,
To protect yourself from touching the scalding hot iron.
You look at yourself in the mirror and smile,
Look at you, you're beautiful.
You tug at the sleeves of your sweatshirt to keep yourself warm,
To save your long, delicate fingers from the bitter cold November air.
After a while, your fingers are no longer freezing and numb,
You can feel them again.
You tug at the sleeves of your sweatshirt when you're nervous,
In attempt to remain calm, though you're frightened and confused.
You find it difficult to steady your breath, what if they don't like you?
It's okay, relax.
You tug at the sleeves of your sweatshirt when you're not thinking straight.
You take it off and toss it onto the ground, staring at the hungry boy in front of you.
Don't let him get what he wants, don't let him tell you what to do.
He doesn't listen.
You tug at the sleeves of your sweatshirt when you're crying,
It's something you can use to wipe the salty tears that roll down your cheeks.
This time, you can't get yourself to smile again.
It's fine, you're fine.
You tug at the sleeves of your sweatshirt to hide what you're ashamed of,
To cover things that you did when you were lost, hurt, and alone.
It's an extra layer of skin that no one can see through.
If they see, they'll think they can help.
But alas; your sleeves slip sometimes,
and everyone can see.
But no one cares to ask if you're okay
No one tries to help.
Foolish girl, what did you think?
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