It’s a good looking dress,
he said. Lights off, prying, pulling
on hems, lace, designs he could not see –
me, eyes swimming in ceiling fan shadows.
Gone. Abandoned in a box
under my bed, but never quite forgotten.
Lucky to have escaped the fate
of fonder memories, ashes rising in smoke.
Next – something safer. Blue, plain, with pockets,
perfect for burying leftover secrets and cold hands.
This one clings to me, an imaginary friend,
“Don’t leave me. I’m all that you have.”
Do not listen. Dig the secrets back out of their graves,
lay them out like a catalogue, accessories
to my madness. Polish until they shine,
then pair them with a new dress,
my one good dress. Black this time,
backless, vulnerable. No pockets, no lace.
A final look in the mirror, recite:
I am all that I have.