I Don’t Wear T-Shirts. See the Rest of the Pics in the First Comment… Full Story👇👇👇
I don’t wear T-shirts.
Not because I don’t own any. I do—folded neatly in a drawer I rarely open. Not because I hate them. I don’t. I just don’t wear them.
Because when I step outside, I want to feel like a character. Not a placeholder. Not a default. I want fabric that tells a story. Texture that remembers. Silhouettes that say something before I even speak.
A T-shirt is silence. I prefer noise.
👇👇👇 Full story below.
It started with a photo. Me, standing in front of Clementine, my rust-freckled Datsun, wearing a linen button-down the color of temple stone. The sleeves rolled just enough to show the scar on my wrist—the one I got planting Riot, my wild marigold, in the wrong season. My collar was open. My stance was deliberate. I looked like someone who’d just walked out of a novel.
I posted it with the caption: “I don’t wear T-shirts.”
The comments lit up. Some confused. Some amused. Some asking why. So I dropped the rest of the pics in the first comment.
Me in a silk shirt, barefoot in the garden, watering Ophelia with a chipped ceramic jug. Me in a vintage Cuban collar, leaning against a wall of bougainvillea, eyes half-closed, sun slicing through the leaves. Me in a cotton poet’s blouse, sleeves billowing like sails, standing in the doorway of a roadside café.
Each photo was a mood. A moment. A refusal.
Because I don’t wear T-shirts.
I wear stories.
I wear the memory of my grandfather’s pressed oxford, the one he wore to every Sunday market. I wear the shirt I found in a secondhand stall in Phnom Penh, stitched with someone else’s initials. I wear the linen I dyed myself with turmeric and regret.
T-shirts don’t hold that kind of weight.
They’re fine. They’re functional. They’re everywhere.
But I’m not trying to be everywhere.
I’m trying to be here.
In this body. In this moment. In this garden. In this car. In this life I’ve curated like a gallery.
And in my gallery, every piece matters.
The collar that frames my jaw. The cuff that catches the wind. The buttons that feel like punctuation.
I don’t wear T-shirts because they don’t ask enough of me.
They don’t challenge me to show up with intention. They don’t mirror the mood of Dusty June, my stubborn rose that blooms sideways. They don’t match the attitude of Echo, the motorcycle I named after the way it remembers every road.
I wear shirts that wrinkle with purpose. That stain with memory. That stretch and shrink and shape themselves around the day.
And when I walk into a room, I want people to wonder—not just who I am, but what I’m saying without words.
Because style isn’t decoration. It’s declaration.
And mine says: I’m not here to blend in.
I’m here to bloom.
👇👇👇
There’s a photo I didn’t post. Me, years ago, in a plain white tee, standing in a crowd, trying to disappear. I remember the feeling—safe, forgettable, invisible. I remember thinking that was the goal.
Now I know better.
Now I know that visibility is power. That softness is armor. That beauty is a choice.
So I choose shirts that speak. That whisper. That shout. That sing.
I choose fabric that feels like poetry. That moves like water. That holds me like a promise.
And I choose to show it.
I’m not shy. I’m not subtle. I’m not sorry.
I don’t wear T-shirts.
I wear legacy.
I wear attitude.
I wear the full story.
So scroll the comments. See the pics. Each one is a chapter. Each one is a confession. Each one is a celebration.
Of the person who stopped hiding.
Of the style that started speaking.
Of the story that doesn’t need permission.
Because I don’t wear T-shirts.
I wear me.
