You are like the dress.

You
are like the dress I keep in the back of my closet
hoping
one day it will pour itself down my bones
land just above the floor
no longer drag
picking up all
of that which it does not own
and I do not own
and should not be burdened with its scrubbing and
cleaning
However,
I
have not grown the necessary height for its draping
you
are just like that
have not grown the necessary height for my draping.

You are the dress I keep in the back of my closet
it has not been hemmed despite three years of me saying, “tomorrow,”
it still drags across old floors
clings to dust
and little corpses of the flies I’ll never know
mind you
if I were that type of woman
a pair of heels could lift me high
have me fill its stature
but it is unlike me
so I keep it there
on a hanger
one day I know
I will either have it’s edges hemmed
or let it go.

You
are just like that.

But I,
have grown tired of wishing on tomorrows
have only grown accustomed to you,
not taking you in
see
how I don’t want to be the type of woman
who collects a closest full of dresses
which do not fit
stares at them longingly
takes up the craft of cutting
and sowing
but finds no pleasure in the needle and thread.
I
don’t want to be the type of woman
with a closet full of corpses of men
who do not fit
hanging by their shoulder blades
me
cutting and sowing
breathing life into body bags
that will will not expand.

You
are the dress I keep
and I

am no seamstress
though I’ve tried
but only made your edges sharper
more jagged with all of my effort
to make you smooth
and the dress still mocks me
with it’s pretty patterns and empty promises of perfect fit
it begs to be put on
and sometimes I do
only to find it still drags across dust ridden floors
and you
are just like that.