My Butterfly Dress

I wore my butterfly Sunday dress,

All lace and sky-blue seams;

I thought it meant I’m harmless,

He thought it birthed his dreams.

Uncle said my smile was sin,

That wings invite the night;

He locked the door and leaned right in—

“Keep quiet and don’t fight”

He snarled that no one’d trust my cries,

And that I “led him on” that day;

“You begged with flutter-patterned thighs—

Now hush and look away.”

I scrubbed his breath out of my skin,

The sink ran rust-red streams;

First blood came far too soon within,

And shattered my childhood dreams.

My best mate waved; I dodged his touch,

No hand could feel quite safe;

If he could twist a dress so much,

Then any smile was chafe.

At night I hugged the ceiling’s dark,

And prayed the dawn would stall;

Silence gnawed a growing mark

No one to hear at all.

When weight of secrets bent my spine

And sleep refused to stay,

I wrote: “The blame was never mine—

I’m giving guilt away.”

“I’m sorry wings were on my hem,

I’m sorry I looked bright;

But I won’t be your secret stem,

I’m leaving you tonight.”

Then butterflies unpinned and flew,

Their paper wings aflame;

The dress he cursed now carried truth—

And scorched away his shame.