A messy mound of black underwear sits sadly on the bathroom floor, a silent story of a difficult day, discarded in the pursuit of more pressing pleasures, such as a hot shower or the immediate relief of a piss held longer than anticipated.
Hollow forms of soft fabric that once held one’s most private parts, now empty and unable to support themselves in upright fashion, and fashion relegated to the inside until it’s dropped on the floor then tossed into a bigger pile of laundry. The thankless cycle of our undergarments unless and until we make them front and center in some ill-advised-but-often-begged-for moment of exhibitionism.
Mostly though, our underwear just works for us until they fall apart or we outgrow them. Perhaps they deserve better.
