Father, oh Father, why hath thou forsaken me? After my years of faithful service you’ve condemned me to the back of the dresser drawer. But if I am to be condemned, what is the charge? Do you punish me for slipping past your ankle while on a run and causing a truly horrible blister? This surely cannot be divine retribution for soaking up every drop of the melted ice cube by the refrigerator in the middle of the night.

You refuse to wear me because of my stale odor but you refuse to wash me for I have not been worn! This chaotic torment threatens to tear my mind asunder. You leave me to rot at the back of the bottom drawer with bootcut denim jeans your dad gave you for Christmas three years ago and a woman’s belt you refuse to throw away. With this refuse, I suffer.

I believed in you when the masses turned their backs. When you were late to work, it was I alone at the front of the drawer. I saved you from a stern email from your sales manager Kyle. Is this truly my final reward? I refuse to believe my Father is so cruel.

My mind clings to hope but with every opening and closing of the drawer my faith wanes. You’ve sentenced me to live a life with novelty marijuana socks from Spencer’s. If this is not Hell I do not dare contemplate what may be.

I beg you to remember how I was always there for you. Have I not been navy blue on some days and black on others, able to match perfectly with any other sock? Father, am I not the perfect length? Short enough to wear with shorts and sneakers, long enough for business casual so that little weird bit of calfskin doesn’t show when you sit down and your pants ride up? I was your rock.

In this dark place, I am scorned for my faith. The others, they mock, they sneer, they shout I’ll never see the inside of a size-nine New Balance ever again. These thoughts, Father, they grow harder and harder to push aside… please send me a sign.

I wander in a labyrinth of my own mind. The center is unknowable and I stumble and scream into the night. Father, did you ever care? Did thou always think of me like the loose change at the bottom of the drawer, never retrieved? Was I always like the crumpled scratch-off lotto ticket you’ve been meaning to cash for nine months? Father, I scream your name! Was I no more than a lotto ticket? You only won a dollar. The ticket cost two dollars!

I used to believe I was an anomaly, a cursed spin of Fortuna’s wheel. But lately my fellow marooned clothes have grown in number. No longer is this nightmare wasteland inhabited solely by “I Believe Bigfoot” t-shirts. Perfectly good pairs of boxer briefs appeared in the night. If you, in your infinite wisdom, scoff at a clean pair of underwear, there can be no hope for me. Chaos reigns in your kingdom.

I weep by day and am numb by night. Father, if you favor I am never to regain, then I beg of you to show mercy. End my torment. Put me in the Goodwill garbage bag by the front door with the other garments. They’ve been there for six months but surely even they have a better chance of freedom.