Chapter 7: Cotton Confessions
I stood in the middle of my bedroom floor, surrounded by them.
Stacked on my bed like a memory quilt — black cotton with lace trim, red roses blooming across white fabric, stripes that screamed Saturday morning cartoons, and yes… the infamous pink polka dot pair. My collection. My secret shame. My comfort. My curse.
I had just pulled every last one out of my dresser, off the top shelf of my closet, even dug up the vintage ones Grandma had given me when I turned sixteen. They were all there, laid bare like evidence in a courtroom where I was both defendant and judge.
The betrayal still burned. The embarrassment clung to me like perfume gone sour. People at work still smiled too much when they passed me in the hall. Clients still made jokes about "cotton confidence." And Simone? She sent me a message saying it was all for the movement — that I'd be thanked later. But right now, all I felt was broken.
That night, I almost called James. Just to hear his voice. Just to pretend I hadn't ruined everything again. But I didn't. I sat on the floor instead, holding one of my oldest pairs — faded, soft, the elastic stretched out from years of wear. It smelled like lavender detergent and nostalgia.
And I cried.
Not because of what Simone did.
But because I thought maybe she was right — maybe loving this way was too much. Maybe I was too much.
I opened the bleach under my sink. Poured some into a bowl. Stared at it like it held the answer.
Just ruin them, I told myself. End it.
Make it stop hurting so damn much.
But as I picked up the first pair — my favorite black high-waisted set — my hands started shaking. My chest tightened. I couldn't do it. I couldn't .
Because this love — messy, misunderstood, painful as hell — wasn't just about underwear. It was about standing in my truth. About honoring the women who raised me. About refusing to be ashamed of who I am, even when the world tried to laugh me into silence.
Still, I felt like a coward for even thinking of giving up on it.
How could something that brought me so much joy also bring so much pain?
I ended up sitting on the bathroom floor for hours, panties in my lap, bleach untouched. I thought about Malik. DeShawn. James. Simone. Every time I loved deeply, someone tried to change me or expose me. And every time, I nearly broke.
I was tired.
So tired.
And yet…
There was still a part of me that whispered, "Don't let them win."
Maybe I wasn't ready to burn my panties.
Maybe I was just ready to find a better way to wear them.