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o Monotonous, the threads called one another.

Stern enough, not to budge, the warp announced its supremacy.

And weft swiftly escaped the argument.

Adjustment, that’s how she was woven!

o They lie down, folded.

The voice is stitched with precision, to put a lid on my imperfection;

‘The darts on my dress.'

o “I stitched u so perfectly, Only I forgot to trim the raw edges. But that's what makes you special.”

o I am afraid I might not fit. The zipper was well adjusted but the button gave up its stride. Announced, "not my cup of tea!". I curved the darts for the converge was too distant. The side seams mocked the gaping and bulges. I bought you just because your only job was to cover, But now your audacity has leaned to point the owner. "It's not me, it's you" the denim jeered. It's not me, it's them" , I tell my stretched trouser blaming the strangers gazing my silhouettes. And then I read the taglines of the sky rocketing labels, to love your own self. But they don't tell you how!


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