a little book of poetry

The Seamstress

A beautiful gown of silk I wore

Fit for a bride, as white as snow, and just as refined.

I should've been happy,

But I wanted more.

I didn't like how it fit across my chest.

In it, I didn't really feel my best.

I went to see the Seamstress,

So she could fix my dress.

To me, she said "I must confess,

But there is only one way to fix this mess."

So, she took her scissors,

And held them to my thigh.

Then, she cut, cut, cut

Along my body line.

Then, she took the excess

And glued it to my breasts.

She took a knife and cut

Right underneath my chest.

With each snip, snip, snip,

I felt locks of my skin rip

From my bones. I bit my lip

To prevent the tears threatening to slip

But one by one each tear fell.

"Oh, sweet girl, don't you weep,"

She oddly tried to comfort me,

"For boys adore lips as red as blood

And a perfectly flawless body.

One day you'll see." 

So, she took her nails,

And dug them in my shoulder.

Then, she strips, strips, strips,

My skin as if I'm clay and she's the molder.

Then, she took the excess,

And glued it to my ass.

She took her cold cold hands

To my arms with a grasp.

I felt my blood drip drip drip

As she tightened her grip

On my arms. I felt a rip rip rip

As she pulled my skin apart

Piece my piece.

Then with one long cold finger,

She wiped the blood from my knee

And smeared it all over my lips

And said, "Now, you are pretty,

Don't you agree?"

But no, I don't agree

Because somehow I felt prettier

When I was still me.

I lie on the floor helpless

In a pool of my own blood.

Then I feel a compress against my own chest,

But it's only the Seamstress staining my dress

With the scraps of a girl who no longer exists.

I used to wear the dress,

But now that dress is wearing

The girl who once was me.