A glittering dress is removed from its hanger
The quiet purr of a zipper
slides up
To contain uneasy fate.
This is not me.
Determined brown eyes framing skin that
protrudes from exhaustion
stare back from within a
cracked glass.
The indigo shadows are swallowed up with
a downy brush dipped in gold.
This is not me.
A different brush, this one dripping in crimson
glazes lips that
dislike color
and know the shapes of desperate prayers better than those of
smiles, of kisses.
This is not me.
Feet that have marched down deserted hallways and
chased after friends that march away,
each toe decorated with a
callous
are slipped into sliver shoes,
tiny buckles glinting at the
end of each strap.
This is not me.
The silver shoes, the shining dress, the painted face
commence a march down the driveway towards
uncomfortable comfort.
A wide crack in the concrete swallows a heel and
the ankle twists and
the figure in the shiny dress falls.

This is not me.
This is not me.
This is not me.

The light drizzle darkens,
washing the face of its mask
and revealing
vulnerable flesh that used to cringe at judgement.
If this is not me, what is?
Hands wipe away the paint
lift the dress
remove the shoes
and help the figure flee, for
what is there to fear if only truth is the one being judged?

The figure stands a little taller.
This is me.