Getting dressed on a bad day

My shirts hang
like vultures above my head
waiting, impatient,
drumming their buttons.
Soon, one will float down,
meld to skin,
and begin to gnaw.

Once, (discovered in Oxfam,
discarded by friends,
salvaged in sales)
each item was essential,
part of a chorus -
some were peacocks,
some could sing
or had thick winter plumage,
some small and drab,
as camoflage.

Now, worn thin, they reveal
another identity, hungry,
feeding each day -
absorbing me - until
there is only clothes disguise.

Who I was, or might have been
has been eaten away -
an imagined morsel.

We search now, and hope,
in some second hand shop,
to find remains
of you or me
regurgitated or
coughed up in blood.