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The green dress is stuffed in the back of my closet,
A sign of femininity long ignored. The twine holding the bag together is fraying. The tag is smudged but I know what it says: For graduation. Love, Mom. The green dress laughed at me then. It still does now. A witch’s cackle, a voice painfully familiar. A girl your size? Lipstick on a pig. Every attempt at dressing up was ridiculed. Every nice outfit was replaced by jeans and a tee shirt. The same ones I wore to my graduation party. Black jeans, black shirt, black socks, and dirty Converse. Camouflage to blend into the shadows. To disappear from sight. |