My white dress with the yawning sweating blooms sighing open red eyes across it is too short.
The bodice is an afterthought. The skirt hikes up around my thighs when I sit down–unless I press my legs together 1950s housewife style and perch at the edge of my seat.
I was not sitting that way when the neighbors flew their new drone overhead for its maiden voyage.
Barefoot and sticky with heat, I chased it down and shot up an ineffectual middle finger, invisible above the miles of leg, the curve and swell of my collarbone seas. I went to bed that night in sweatpants despite the thick balm of 3 AM in a North Carolina July, wondering how many of me there are with coffee stains and thick layers, seething with wishing our fingers were guns.
My white dress with the flowers, it’s crumpled at the bottom of autumn’s trash bag of clothes to be donated. I brush away the cobwebs of shame reaching down to stroke my face from dark corners and I tell myself that it just doesn’t fit right.