This purple silk is the colour of love, but a symbol of love I am not. It is not love they see as I stroll along the street, My waist cinched and gilded with poor manβs gold (God forbid a woman should have anything to herself). They think the shadows of their top hats hide their gaze But I can feel their perverse eyes skimming my form. Hypocrites.
Weβre forever forced to dress in a way that is pleasing And overtly obvious to their unclothing, naked eyes; Liberating, perhaps, if we were granted the freedom to act in accordance With how the silk makes us feel as it caresses our skin With how the stiffness feels against the flesh of our chests With how the weight of our skirts make us long for a tender touch.
I have to wonder if Harriet Mill sits equally adorned and ogled As she writes of our enfranchisement, if John watches her work In the dresses he bought to intensify her shape, Before asking her precisely where she wants to be touched Because he knows she deserves to demonstrate what she is capable of. They claim that might is their right, But they know nothing of the strength it takes to resist these carnal pleasures. Observe my corseted form, but let me assure you, This was not the kind of bone I wanted digging into me tonight.
I wrote this for a poetry competition at my local museum. It made it to the final round, I'm good with that.