In the style of Kim Addonizio
I want a blue dress.
I want it starched and unwelcoming;
I want it so loose I forget I'm in it;
I want to wear it until I completely disappear
in the folds of its cobalt fabric. I want it
turtleneck and ankle-length
so no one cares to guess who's
underneath. I want to crawl under
the covers in my blue dress and bleed
into the mattress, the springs groaning
under my weight. I want to sulk
in the silence of my own brooding,
to hide behind the guise of "I'm fine" and
"okay" just to be left alone, unpursued.
I want that blue dress quite badly.
I want to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little you know
of anything except the cliches that slip
out of my lips, the ones I hate the most.
When I find it, I'll pull that vestment
from its hanger in the dark corner
of my closet like I actually have a choice
to feel the way I do when the only blue
I find are the veins that run too close
under the thin vellum of my skin.
It'll be the obsequy dress
they bury me in.
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