Pensive [Pansy Parkinson] ✔️

iv. little, black dress

iii. Little, black dress

It was the usual Holiday festivities
at your house.
You call it a 'house' rather than a 'home'
I don't wonder why.
I already know.

Your eyes are glued to me,
not to the girl whose tiny arms
are wrapped around yours.
Whose eyes watch you intently
as you watch me.
Wherever I went, whatever I did.

You couldn't stop staring.

I should tell you that it is rude to stare.
Especially with her there.
Instead, I inwardly gloat.

Dinner was tedious but fast.
Or maybe it was just exceptionally quiet.
Everyone dreaded to talk or they might say the wrong thing.
A war is coming our way
but we already know that, too.

I feel your eyes on every part of me,
and it burns.

Finally came the end, the sigh of relief.
My parents told me I should stay a while, and so did some of our friends.

When everyone's too busy with small talks and cozy conversations by the leather couches,
you pulled me out of sight,
and into the small library,
just adjacent to your father's study.

Dust have began to gather in the shelves
but the carpet was clean and the drapes were elegant.
There is a fireplace in the middle,
And your mother's figurines filled the places that the books do not occupy.

You pinned me against a shelf.
You said it was your favorite shelf.
Before your lips could capture mine,
in the midst of all the hazziness,
I heard you whisper my name.

It was the faintest of sounds,
yet, there it was— loud and clear.

For the first time,
regret and self-loathing
burrowed their way out of my chest.
And I feel worthy under your gaze.
I feel renewed.

Then, you told me
that the only thing you love more
than seeing me
in that little, black dress
is seeing me get out of it.

So, for the first time in such a long time,

I don't condemn myself for wanting you to want me.