It's like you knew me

It's like you knew me.
Then one day, all of a sudden, you decided it was a new me.
And all that you thought you knew of me you had never really known.

You said you thought you knew me.
But you know that "ugly ass sweater" you think feels itchy and brand new?
To me, it's the softest and warmest piece of clothing I've ever known.
As if it has been passed down from generation to generation, to rightfully land in my very hands.

It's like you drew me.
Selected me at random out of a magician's hat.
Sketched the likes of me out on the back of a Waffle House receipt with the mechanical pencil you keep in your pearl snap shirt pocket.
The front side inked with our worth. Bottomless coffee prices and endless eggie wegs.
You smudged me in with bacon grease and Aunt Jemima.
A color combination of times as hard as dirt, with smells as sweet as syrup.

It's like you threw me.
Used me and used me and used me.
Fed me to the wolves, who chewed me up.
Took a couple of bites, even though they weren't hungry.
Decided I tasted as sweet and as pure as a slice of apple pie. Then swallowed me whole.