These clothes

I wonder how they felt after I piled them up like that

When I couldn’t seem to remember how they were the first day before they got on that spot

Next to the large antique mirror my mom bought before she married my Dad

Waiting as if some tired and old fingers can start lifting them up, 

Separating the old and the new, the colorful and the least colorful though, most of them were my clothes in fifth grade, oh god!

At least the basket was new

and the stain making t-shirts which make your eyebrows dance upside-down from the regular ones that kick people’s asses on a hot summer’s day.

How long has it been?

Now that molds and and black dots appear just below the neckline forming little kindergarten” follow the dot ” workbooks for practice writing 

Where you mostly have wiped your inexcusable tears or running nose on

They must be rapping some nasty onion juice-inducing eye-soaring and life-threatening complaints towards me for mishandling 

then I would have hurried setting up my laundry set and began handwashing to shut their vulgar mouths 

But no! Never!


I’m lying on the couch, looking at them

Fantasizing some fancy tricks to finish them off 

perhaps then

I could get to hang them outside after washing them up with Downy fabric conditioner 

And yet


I decided to sleep even after giving so much thought of it.

So these clothes keep multiplying, pressing down in the basket as new set of soiled clothes get into the mix, giving off acid-sweat smell to people who go up the stairs. 

Somehow, they give me that kind of entertainment. 

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