“The Jacket” By Ali Dening

Photo by  Lukáš Vaňátko on Unsplash

I stand at the edge of the crowd,

close enough to touch but too afraid to reach out.

Wearing my eccentricity like a warm Jacket on this summer night,

I’m sweating, suffering, complaining about the heat —

too stupid, too proud, too fearful

to remove the Jacket and give myself some relief.

But this sweltering safety isn’t sustainable.

The temperature is climbing with every offhanded slight.

A Jacket is too heavy for this blistering climate, 

I’m overdressed but the only other option is social suicide.

It’s not the cold the Jacket protects me from, it’s all their prying eyes:

Eyes that brand me with their presumptions, 

Eyes that ensorcell me with kind lies,

Eyes that prod and poke and peel back the layers

of this Jacket I hide behind.

To ease the agony of almost,

I’ll let the Jacket slip from my shoulders.

Let them see all the strange pieces that make Me.

My exposed skin may smolder under their assessing eyes,

but they’ll find me bolder —

my truth bolstered by hard stares.

Let them see, let them run —

Let them be blinded by the brilliance of an unveiled sun.

For years I’ve wrapped myself in misery,

trading risk for the safety of being unseen.

As I cast off this self-imposed suffocation, I ask:

What reason have I given these prying eyes, to care whether I laugh or cry?

My loneliness is not their fault, it’s mine.

I have woven a Jacket from strands of perceived rejection,

crafted needless protection against life itself, 

then complained as it swept past and left me.

So I'll hang the Jacket in the closet, step free into the warm summer breeze.

It’s not half so humid, wearing short sleeves.

Hostile gazes cannot match the heat of a soul undimmed,

and eyes blinded by judgment hold no power over me.

It isn’t selfish to be yourself,

It’s not a sin to stand tall in your own skin.

It isn’t the opinions of others that define you,

and it’s not the place of a faceless crowd

to tell you how you should be.

Ali Dening is 16 years old; she lives in Leeds, Maine, with an excellent dog who likes to rest her head on keyboards. Currently, she’s attempting to write an epic fantasy novel, but her characters refuse to stick to the outline and her dog really likes her makeshift pillow, so the book is far from finished. Ali goes to Leavitt Area High School, where she loves to nordic ski. On face value, it's a terrible, freezing sport, but she swears it's fun.

The Jacket is her first foray into poetry. The original version of the poem was very bleak and depressing, because those were the emotions that inspired her to write it. The process that brought it from its initial form to its final product really helped her to examine her relationships.