The Dress Speaks

They never spoke of me - only the thread,
The way the collar curved, the laces tied.
No word was breathed for all the tears I bled;
The praise was for the ribbon, not the bride.

They marveled at the sheen upon my sleeves,
Yet could not name the shadow in my eyes.
Their love was pinned to buttons like dry leaves -
Pressed firm, while all my seasons passed them by.

They traced the line where fabric met my throat,
But not the pulse that trembled underneath.
They praised the way my body held its coat,
Not how I clenched my jaw, or ground my teeth.

No voice cried out for who I was within -
Only the fit, the shape, the chosen hue.
The dress they loved was stitched atop my skin,
But none asked why I wore that shade of blue.

They called me striking - meant the way I stood.
The posture they admired had grown from ache.
They gasped at folds that fell the way they should,
But never saw the spine begin to break.

They smiled when silks would catch the chandelier,
But never caught the weight that made me sway.
Their hands would touch the velvet, never near
Enough to brush the part that pulled away.

I might have screamed, but velvet made no sound.
And so I walked - adorned, unheard, alone.
They spoke in praise while walking all around
The soul that stood in silence, made of bone.