Birthed from the ashes, like a phoenix perhaps?

The dress dares to be strikingly close to the color of said bird

Clipped wings give you reassurance,


Maybe you should have given me a white dress

or a black one to mourn for your soul

You didn’t know?

This pale complexion came from hours of smoldering

Soft, malleable–

Crushed to the point of breaking,

but not quite yet

Maybe that’s why you covered me with folds of crimson

Marring the skin with blossoms of scarlet would have been too much,

even for you

That’s why you clothed me in burgundy

Praying that the ruby would smother the fire in my eyes until it died,


I may be a porcelain doll in the red dress,

insipid beauty meant for display

I was sent to burn

to breathe

I will not crack, I will not break

Covered with fissures

The number may have replaced my name

I will not dim

I will not die out


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