all the wild things

It’s tattered in places, but softer than the softest cotton I’ve ever felt. Like it’s been worn and washed a thousand times. There are a few threads hanging from its uneven hem, but the tiny ruffles are what draws the eye. Layers and layers of them, stitched into the soft white fabric. I had scoured the thrift shop searching for just such a prize. The fact that it twirls prettier than any of my other skirts is simply white icing on the cake.