What Would I Wear If My Wardrobe Door Is Stuck? #WriteAPageADay #725

What Would You Wear if Your Wardrobe Door Is Stuck?

I stand at the edge of the morning,
the door refusing to open,
frozen, stubborn in its wood-stitched silence.
I press, I pull, but no—no passage to the fabric river,
the tides of cloth crashing against hinges that forgot
what it meant to move.

A shirt, perhaps,
like the one that never fit me—
its collar too tight, its cuffs too wide.
But the fabric clings,
and I forget where I end and it begins.
I could wear its weight,
or could I?
Could I fold myself into something
I never quite understood?

My trousers —
they speak of rebellion.
Too stiff, too loose, too loud,
yet they've been my second skin
on days when the world was too soft.
Would I wear them today?
Would I dare?

But, wait!
The wardrobe speaks in muffled voices,
and I hear the whispers of a jacket
long buried in the back—
its sleeves like relics from another life,
ready to trap me in their forgotten promises.
Why do I not want to wear it?
Why does it smell of memories unmade?
Or is it the history of me
pressed against its fabric?

The wardrobe is still stuck—
no escape from the hunger of morning.
What would I wear?
What could I wear
when the universe dresses me in its own disorder?

I lift my hand to the mirror,
but the reflection isn't mine anymore—
it’s the image of a shirt I borrowed once,
its fabric too thin, too tight
for my body.
I look, I wait,
but it doesn’t seem to fit.
Not today.
Not today, I say again.

If the door stays stuck,
I’ll wear nothing at all.
But wait,
I hear it.
It’s not nothing.
It’s the air,
touching me with its infinite threads
of things unseen,
things untouched,
things I can’t name.

I reach into the void,
pulling a coat out of the atmosphere,
and I slip into memories.
A scarf made from my father’s hands,
shoes I bought when I forgot what they meant,
and a hat I never learned to wear with ease.
Does it suit me?
Does anything suit me anymore?

I could wear a shadow,
wrap it around me like a coat of indifference.
Could I choose that as my uniform?
Could I walk through the hours
in nothing but a sliver of light?

The wardrobe door is still stuck,
but now I’m unsure if I need it—
as if the world is only a mirror to the clothes
I refuse to wear,
as if all that matters is not the fabric,
but what remains inside.

Would I wear the past?
Could I wear the mistakes?
The ones I left behind, crumpled and forgotten—
the fabric of my regrets,
stitched into the lining of my mind?
Or do I wear the future instead,
a transparent jacket,
where each step leaves behind a trace
of a possibility unformed?

I could wear my own hands,
unadorned, uncut,
with the scars of knowing too much.
Or would I wear the quiet?
A shirt of silence,
its folds woven from moments between breaths.
That would be a look.
How does one wear the void?

The door creaks.
I think it might open,
but I stand frozen,
unsure.
What would I wear if it did?
What could I wear now,
when I’ve spent so long
wearing what I’ve been told to wear?

But what is this that’s left?
Am I the coat or the man?
Am I the clothes or the air that surrounds them?
Can I wear myself whole again?

What if I dress in the mess of it?
A mismatched jacket of fleeting thoughts,
trousers of unfinished conversations,
a scarf of half-spoken words,
socks that don’t match my mood.

Could I wear all the unsaid?
Could I wear the freedom of being undecided?
The wardrobe door stuck forever,
leaving me to fashion myself from will,
from dust,
from chaos.

What would I wear if the wardrobe door stays stuck?
Maybe it would be my own skin,
raw and untamed,
bare and beautiful.
But then again,
I could wear the illusion,
the perfect suit of self-deception,
like everyone else does.

So I wait,
standing at the edge of the day,
the wardrobe closed,
and my mind unbuttoned.

I think I'll wear a thought.
Just one.
But which one?

#Poetry #FashionMetaphor #SelfDiscovery #CreativeWriting #Existentialism #Identity #ClothingSymbolism #PoetryCommunity #WritingInspiration