The Yellow Dress has been hung out to dry,
brown laundry twine muffle the neckline.
The black flats swung softly below,
In the distance the boy heard a white raven crow.
The Yellow Dress hangs and hangs, but the boys face must still be wet.
The boy is pretty and cold, despite his nervous sweat.
His dress soon grows bored and wonders what’s taking so long.
Time with the boy had never been less fun.
As the boy started dancing and swinging,
The dress cheered him on, but the rope ended up winning.
As he hung limp the dress grew lonely,
So it tried to smile at something friendly,
Pink fabric flowers wave hello to breeze,
But wind merely weeps and runs off to the trees.
The boy usually left the dress all alone,
Ever since his parents came home,
Until of course, today,
The dress wondered when the boy stopped being afraid.
Maybe he was done,
Done playing the game of hide, then run.
Though his parents seemed to enjoy it.
They were always laughing, especially when his skin split.
Now time has past, and they are both alone,
The boy and the dress longed for different types of home.
The dress is shivering and the boys skin is long past blue, taking over his rosy hue.
It struggles against the laundry line,
Certain it’ll get out this time.
The dress huffs and curses the body.
Why won’t it move? This stupid limp body.
The boy used to be fun and run around playing,
Now the only game he plays is called praying.
The dress looks up at the line more carefully.
How weird… it was never tied this forcefully.
The cord is twisted and oddly thick.
How come its wrapped around his neck?
To all those different and done...
Number 14 Of Story Of Our Lives