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First there are three that have been ripped
Their crimson stuffing
coming out of the gashes
One of them is beyond repair
And when I wear it
It draws attention to itself
The second one seems to get damp easily
Like it's eternally soaked in tears
Besides
The collar is scratchy and annoying
and it's a little too slutty for my taste
I lost the third one for a while
When I got it back
It wasn't the same
Those three are the first to go
The next two seem to always get tangled
The icy cold silver buttons on one
Snags with the blunt white clasps of the other
I throw those two into the box quickly
Let them sort it out on the way to the trash
There's this fuchsia one that I hate
It blends me into the crowd
Leaving me feel uncomfortable
I also don't like it's callused feel
Or it's watery appearance
Into the box it goes
The next one is way too loud
It is just too young looking
Trash it
I like the next one I pick up
Sadly, it's not mine
And I have to tearfully give it back
The next is just too masculine for me
I throw all my coats into a big box
Slam the lid shut
Then I turn to my closet
It's bare
Entirely empty
Good, I think with a nod
That's how I want it to be