In the style of Kim Addonizio

I want a blue dress.

I want it starched and unwelcoming;

I want it so loose I forget I'm in it;

I want to wear it until I completely disappear

in the folds of its cobalt fabric.  I want it

turtleneck and ankle-length 

so no one cares to guess who's

underneath.  I want to crawl under 

the covers in my blue dress and bleed

into the mattress, the springs groaning

under my weight.  I want to sulk 

in the silence of my own brooding,

to hide behind the guise of "I'm fine" and

"okay" just to be left alone, unpursued.

I want that blue dress quite badly.  

I want to confirm 

your worst fears about me,

to show you how little you know

of anything except the cliches that slip

out of my lips, the ones I hate the most.

When I find it, I'll pull that vestment

from its hanger in the dark corner 

of my closet like I actually have a choice

to feel the way I do when the only blue

I find are the veins that run too close

under the thin vellum of my skin.

It'll be the obsequy dress 

they bury me in.