Driely S.

New York

This is not just a shirt, it is an armor. A bloody shield capable of preventing all damages coming from outside. But beyond that, it protects me from my own self, my own mistakes. I’m incapable of keeping myself safe from love.

I was wearing Iggy, so I would not have to say out loud that I was the property of no one. He asked me about my shirt with the greatest disdain. I did not like him, so I simply replied with a half smile saying where I got it, omitting the fact that it was shoplifted. It was too late, I was already his “Nazi Girlfriend,” like the song.

We meet Iggy in person. He tasted like salt and magic. I licked him. It was the peak of madness. There were lightnings.

But wildness is a necessity. I lost precious days. It needed to end. I would wake up in the morning shaking my pillows violently, searching for the dreams I had lost.

The worst wounds are the ones that manifest from the inside out. It was all gone. The desire, the sincerity, the courage, my own flaming self-respect.

As I tried to rescue my own dignity, the final blow: “I CAN’T TRUST NO GIRL WITH AN IGGY POP SHIRT.” I had officially become a song, a very bad one.

Luckily I have my Iggy T-shirt to protect me from everything, except my own heart. And that is the beginning of everything. And anytime I wear this rag of a shirt, I know it is home.

This is not just a shirt, this is who I am.

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