I have one trusty safety pin that I use for any skirt, dress, or pair of pants that don’t fit me. I don’t know how to sew, and I don’t care to learn, so when it comes time to hem or take a waist band in here and there, a safety pin is my best bet.

My mother seldom sewed, though she would deny this fact, so the skill never passed down to me. She always had safety pins laying around on her dresser or piled up in a gold and bronze jar she owned. Her many sarees required multiple safety pins to hold all nine yards of fabric in place.

Plus a pin is easy. You just snap it in, fold any extra fabric under itself, tuck it towards the back because if you can’t see it then it doesn’t exist, and you’d go on your merry way.

In my apartment now, I only have one safety pin, and I don’t care to buy more. This medium sized metal object fastens to all my favorite skirts and dresses missing their buttons. She is reliable, trustworthy.

I detest bringing in new things, and I detest fixing what is old. Worn and a different size than I am, my favorite thrifted red skirt is alright with a safety pin. It’s asymmetrical stitching make it a hassle to bring the waist in anyway.

Similarly, my broken shoe rack is perfectly functional with duct tape wrapped around its wound. My mirror, slightly too short for me, is the perfect height when propped up on a stool. And the makeshift curtains that are really just old scarves do a perfectly fine job of providing shade from the peak afternoon sunlight.

This is my house, and I don’t know how to let anyone in.

I’m not particularly proud of the curtains or the uneven dresser leg propped up by a book. Also, I like my space. I like existing in it without shame about the people judging my place. It’s my house, and I live here. So why should someone else?

There’s already enough. There are the books that weigh too much, the hair all over the floor mixing with dust. There’s the air mattress in the corner, deflated and folded into a ball, that I save for when my best friend wants to sleep over. There is my mirror and my shelf of all the pictures of my family. I wouldn’t want anyone to see all this stuff.

I close my blinds (makeshift curtains) at night and lock my door. I tuck myself into bed, whisper goodnight to my single safety pin, and hope no one comes to wake me.