Don’t look at me I said
You won’t see
my beautiful dress.
Hours of needle and thread
Fingers pricked
healed but scarred.
You can’t see what I’ve done
The perfect hem
underneath.
Only the frills and lace show
Not the seam
sewn arrow straight.
You’ll only see
The flowers and bows
not the lining.
You don’t deserve to see
Such a beautiful dress
worn only on Sunday.
The beauty is embedded
In the fabric
pressed neatly smooth.
Don’t look at my dress
You won’t see its beauty
until crumpled on the floor.