Dress*

In two months and three days I will
be wearing
the gold dress
hanging, empty, on the back of my door.

On that night I will be perfectly
slightly
tipsy
and chocolate-scented.

Under the silk will be my
golden, imperfect
self.
I will be hiding all my flaws.

It will pass so quickly, and I will be
back home, here,
sitting on my
bed, with the paint-stain,

looking at my perfect, almost-imaginary
gold dress,
hanging
over a towel and a dressing gown, diminished.

The material is not a part of me;
It is impossible to hide under dresses
and dresses
forever.