It was hanging on display

in the open closet near a tarnished chain

connected to a frosted light bulb,

the jaundiced dress,

folds and pleats in need of ironing.

The skirt was as thin and transparent

as the spider webs dangling from the ceiling.

A silky sheen of ribbon

reflecting the golden sunlight

served as a belt draping from the waist,

as if fit for a faerie nymph.

Yellows and oranges assaulted the bodice, where

molted flower petals caressed the bosom,

melting into the stitching

at the pearly opal buttons.

Ancient sleeves frayed short at the edges.

The empty arms could not reach,

but only slumped in despair.

And on the collar were tiny pinpricks:

fresh, bright red crimson drops

expanding in lines

as they dripped to the floor.

The stains, layered with berry seeds,

were like sweet, sticky blood.