by Élissya Lécuyer
Procrastinator Editor

We are hundreds close together. The wind’s a strong yet soft touch, brushing past us. It almost drags us away, yet all it takes with it is our smell; lemon soap with a hint of yearning. We are tied down by the clothespins, tight around our necks. We could be free; all we need are two legs to embrace us.

Here, they let us lie in the sun all day. Our color drains, but no one seems to notice. We are part of the background now; curtains to the unknown.

Sometimes it rains. When it does, we feel heavy. With sadness. The water sticks to us, almost trying to drown us or drag us down to the ground. There is nothing to cover us, or to keep us warm. We are normally what keep others so.

Most of us are destined to stay here. We are the last person who wore us – no one wants something already used. We try to tell them though.

“Being used does not mean being useless.”

Our knees are damaged, our ends, ripped. We have had our fair share of scrapes and falls. We are made to last: durable, that’s what they should call us. All they do is stitch us up, and hang us back here, knowing no one will bother to pick us up. Brand new. That’s what they want us to think. But we know better. So we all remain here, hanging on our noose.

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