‘an op-shop of wedding dresses’
[the collective noun for the ghosts of dreams failed]

raw silk
hand-sewn with promises
and embroidered with unrealistic expectations

vows that came dressed in virginal white,
now indelibly stained with wine and sweat
betrayal and disappointment
failure and pain.

floor length hems and six-foot trains,
held up to protect against the world’s unwashed floor,
until they got too heavy to carry,
and now marked with grime and dirt.

the safety pin that holds the sleeve in place;
after all, it only has to make it through one night.

i search the scriptures for the stories that tell like mine:
for those who were found
and now are lost;
who could see
and now are blind

but the words and stories
that have been my staff and strength
finished too soon

and where there were answers
there are now only questions
scored deeply into the heart of my soul
like a compass point
ripping into my skin
and tattooing indelible prayers
of faithlessness.

relishing the ease
with which the words rolled around my tongue
and fell on your ears

until i watched doubt enter your faith
for the first time.

i am so sorry.

it’s all too easy
to deny the power i have
to crush another’s fragile
faith.

doubt is sacred
and not to be entered blithely.

sorry.

He doesn’t.