Secondhand

You came in wearing arguments

I've heard on better hangers,

every line already ironed,

every outrage pre-shrunk.

I asked you one floor under them —

one "why" below the slogan —

and watched the whole outfit

come apart at the seams.

It's warm in a crowd's opinion.

That's all a uniform is.

Secondhand, secondhand —

whose thought is that you're wearing?

It fits so well 'cause thousands wore it,

broken in before you.

Take it off. Stand cold a minute.

Cold's where your own ones grow.

I'm not saying stitch from nothing —

nobody weaves alone.

Borrow the cloth, borrow the loom,

borrow the whole tradition.

But run the thread through your own hands once.

Feel where it holds. Feel where it lies.

An opinion you've never doubted

isn't yours. It's just on you.

It's warm in a crowd's opinion.

That's all a uniform is.

Secondhand, secondhand —

whose fight is that you're fighting?

You can shout it word for word all night

and never once have thought it.

Take it off. Stand cold a minute.

Cold's where your own ones grow.

And yes — I checked my own coat

while I was writing this.

Found three seams I'd never sewn.

Unpicked two. Kept one. On purpose, now.

Secondhand, secondhand —

we're all in something borrowed.

The shame's not in the wearing, mate —

the shame's in never checking.

So take it off. Stand cold a minute.

Both of us. Tonight.

Cold's where your own ones grow.

Aaah —