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.

“Could it hurt to just try?”

she whispers, her voice to the moon.

The stars catch her cry,

but echo no hopeful tune.

They say white is for beginnings,

for altars, vows, and song.

But hers is a gown of endless endings,

a vow to what went wrong.

And when dawn unclothes her, soft yet tragic;

her body bare tells the truth:

purple blood on white fabric—

the ruin of her youth.