White Dress

Daffni Gingerich/Daffniblog


Speaking to others just makes me down down and out. It brings me there like a hangover laced with hospital gowns. Churning stomach and acid in my chest. That smell of iodine and vomit, the hustle of silence. My lips don’t feel like my own and this body only a wonderland for his fantasies but I have no real interest in fantasy these days. I hung my white dress in the window but with this tunnel vision it’s a vase. The dress has pockets fit for buttercups, or quartz depending on my mood. The collar is elastic lace that grips my neck as a reminder this life and everything in it is temporary. The truth is it’s gunna itch but I tend to sacrifice comfort for beauty. I’ve showered and gotten into my underwear but I can’t find the dress. I’ve torn my room apart and flipped the bed. He…

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