I found you on a whim—

no intention,

no hunger to be seen.

You didn’t grab me.

You draped.

You moved when I moved,

gave me room to be a woman

without proving it.

You were patterned and loose,

full of stories and space.

I loved that about you—

how you made me feel whimsical,

feminine,

without tracing my body like a question.

People said I looked cute

and I knew they meant me,

not my shape,

not my measurements,

just the ease of how I existed inside you.

You traveled with me.

Three thousand miles of becoming.

Hollywood sun.

A quiet celebration of how far I’d come.

I wore you for that reason.

And then—

you were taken into bright rooms

with cold language.

Bagged.

Labeled.

My favorite dress became evidence.

You were taken from me

along with a pinch of control,

a slip of dignity,

a beauty I hadn’t planned on losing.

Time passed.

Life asked me to keep going.

When you returned,

the case was closed.

Stamped.

Finished.

But you came back holding something.

You no longer floated.

You sat heavy on my skin.

You made my body remember

what my mouth never rehearsed.

You stopped being my favorite.

Not because you changed—

but because I did.

I used to have a dress.

It was really my favorite.

Now it’s just fabric

that survived something I didn’t deserve.

Poem by: Sandrea Lanay