She wears the color of snow,
a silence stitched into the seams—
even she doesn’t know.
Her wings fly only in dreams,
Too fragile, the body of a moth,
drawn to the light but lost in the dark.
Each fold a wound beneath the cloth,
even the scars have a mark.
Thorns bloom where petals should,
violets straining her breath.
Her gown drinks bruises misunderstood,
a gentle hymn between life and death.
...
