The Dress

The pink bow on the stocking top,
I adjust as I raise my dress.
Suprsingly I feel more myself if the bow is straight.
Flattening the dress with my palm.
I say out loud 'that's better' and proceed to write a poem.

The dress, squeezes air from this room.
Each fabric fold, compresses my lungs.
My thoughts refract, and I watch identity,
float on material soaked in serotonin's spray.

To put her on is to embed a shotgun in the shoulder.
Recoiling from fairground reflections,
deciphering disappointment blown across glass.
Revealing the succubus feeding on somnolence.

Here, now is the disclosing of a prophecy.
A necessary unburdening by ritual.
Conception's bonfire built, born alight, ablaze!
A living sacrifice for anomaly's blade.

The scalpel must be the compass needle,
finding the magnetic north of the lost soul.
Let it create blood contours on this hidden map,
that I might recognise the hilltop of myself.