T-Shirt Sorcery 
Periodically, the day comes where the world decides to point all its guns at me, and clouds and clouds full of misfortunes come pelting down to extinguish the torch lighting my insides. I used to believe I was a sorcerer— and still do the faintest bit. I would choose my outfit according to the magnetic pole I surmised Melancholy's compass pointed that day, and made sure to select the same. But not all my foreseeings were always accurate, and I blamed it on the shirt— the shirt turned the world against me. A prison lies in the corner of my closet barring the clothes that failed me, served as punching bags— bullseyes for all the world's arrows. My mom believes I outgrew this pile of clothing— she never saw me wear them again; today I announce they must make room for a new inmate.