I remember when she started disappearing.
It wasn’t just the night we went out visiting, when she wore her best dress.
It was way before that.
Worn down with little comments
remarks and glances
to erase her piece by piece.
In the end there wasn’t much left to fight back.
Her purple dress was
a gentle lilac, pleated in the skirt
a great contrast of softness and angles.
It draped across her chest
wrapped around her
and formed a little keyhole at the back of the neck.
Embellished with a little flower design at the knee.
He told her not to wear it; he knew how lovely she looked in it
didn’t want her (or anyone else)
There’s power in your battledress.
They know this.