It reeks of an attic,

Collecting dust, frantic

In a great weight.

And the certain fate,

That my mother will wash it,

Comforts me and my grit.

I'm covered in another's past

Probably got rid of it too fast.

Maybe they wore it once

Or that's all they wore in months

And the used toys with scratches,

Bleeding colors and clothes mismatch,

Will come alive at my touch,

But it will smell just a bit too much,

Like that old Value Village.