“Help me!” pleaded the unworn pink hand-me-down, its fabric rough but valuable, to its owner. However, the young mind remained deaf to its plea. “I am made from sheep, beaten, battered, and transformed into something beautiful. I’ve been through a lot, and I want to be worn.” The fresh flesh, though, thought otherwise. “I couldn’t care less about what you’ve been through; you’re too small for me,” it mused. The pink garment languished in the closet until the day the owner decided to cut it apart, drape it, and stretch it, combining it with black felt instead of caressing soft baby skin. It was now ready to scratch. “Please, wash me,” implored the Indian muslin, originally intended to cover a pregnant belly, adorned with silver and stones. “You may be my color, but you’re not my style.” It hung in the owner’s wardrobe, waiting to be worn. On rare occasions, during special rainy rituals, it shone. Until one day, it too was cut apart, draped, stretched, and fused with black felt, ready to itch. “Lace luxury livery” chimed in, urging to be worn. “You’re the color of a donkey that is running away...”