Catharsis

A pink dress hangs,
lace tracing the hem
like soft cobwebs,
ribbon cinching the waist,
still tied neatly in a bow.

Satin fabric, once smooth,
now creased with time,
white lace across the bodice,
where a silver cross
once hung above her heart.

And there, just below the waistline,
a deep red stain blooms
against blushing cotton.
Dark at the center, its edges
feather into rusty veins,
spilling like cracked porcelain
up the seams, sinking
deep into the weave.

No soap, no scrubbing,
no pleading for reversal of time
could ever lift the stain,
as if a desperate prayer
could somehow give back
what was taken.

She wore it only once,
but it clings to her still,
an insidious monster hiding
in the back of her closet,
whispering I will never let go.

Tonight, beneath the hush
of falling snow,
she strikes a match,
lets flame kiss the hem,
and watches as cloth curls inward,
blackens, folds into nothing.

Smoke rises, lifting rage
and betrayal into the sky,
flames devour lace and satin,
twist ribbons into snarling soot.

It howls as it burns, the beast
that held her down, left her hollow,
now dying in its final fury,
spitting out embers like curses
until it collapses inward,
curling into smoke
and blackened ash.

She watches, silent,
until only glowing fragments remain.

She falls to the ground on virgin snow,
and a single tear slips down her cheek,
melting into the warm relief
of letting go.