Is it really vain to take pride in how you look? 
I mean... I guess... by, like, definition, yes…
But I don’t really DO definitions. 
Each outfit in this closet is a piece of me. 
Each button, each strap once informed who I was. 
The long striped dress my mom bought for me…
Why do I still have this? 
The pink chiffon romper I wore on one of my first dates. 
He wore sweatpants. 
It was love at first sight. For me. 
It was love at first sight for him when he saw Gwen Johnson. 
Or the red high waisted shorts I used to wear every fourth of july…
Until I saw Gwen Johnson wearing the same exact ones.   
That girl was really just pushing my buttons.

The pressed down button up, pleated plaid skirt and lime green tie. 
Our school colors, go Sweet Peas! 
I wore this, everyday from 8-2 pm, five days a week for four years. Disgusting. 
One time, I wore this nice, short checkered skirt that gave me a small slice of individuality. 
I was sent home as a frivolous diversion. A visual tease.
 As if I’m a phone for a driver.
Loud music for a student.
An ice cream sundae to delve into for a man who’s on a diet.

The Saturday night outfit. For when the girls would go out. 
It was me, my good friend Jenna, Corinne, and... Gwen Johnson. 
That’s right, I don’t hold grudges. 
Who cares that she was a cheater and shameless fashion thief? Not me.
So we went out on the town. Maybe I’d meet a guy, who knows? 
Actually, I met several guys. 
A whole pack.

This short black dress- strapless, backless, classy. 
For a night it was going to turn me into Venus. 
It turned me into venison. 
It was Andy’s end of summer party
and I wanted to look my best, get this guy’s attention. 
There was a thick line of black eyeliner around my eyes, 
red lipstick applied generously on my lips.
I thought I looked Chic. 
My friend said I looked fab, he said I looked flat. 
And later that night the outfit that I had so delicately put together was on the floor.
The outfit I had used to define myself as beautiful made him define me as a target. 

When I got raped, I thought it would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. But then I got in that court room and alll i got were questions. All I got was blme. All I felt was my freedom being slowly stripped away by that horrid black dress that I can never wear again.

Baggy sweatpants and a stretched out sweater, this is all I wore for two months after.

A smart, elegant navy blue jacket, a slightly darker shade dress skirt. 
This is what I’ll wear today. 
What my lawyer described as “sensible attire”.

I’m older now. 
Most of these clothes no longer fit me. 
But each blouse, each skirt, each tank top, each coat, each... 
I see something that reminds me of that day in each stitch. 
Each stitch of the way I used to see myself that was 
Ripped, torn, and can’t be sewn back together again.

When did clothing become justification?

I am a beautiful woman. And my clothes don’t speak. I do.