Secrets.
I made a last minute to my dress last night, sewing by firelight in my empty room. I selected a passage from the most intimate depths of my journal, a severance of moleskine secrecy, snipped from the binding and sewn in tiny, spider scrawled handwriting across the bodice of my dress.
I chose a peach color, pink if held up to the light but almost invisible, running circles around the chasms where my nipples will lie, cupped by sheer white lace but hidden from the chilly air. It was bold of me, to make something so intimate, my modesty salvaged only by the notion that the thread blends almost perfectly with the white stitching of my other secret words.
I wrote I must solemnly swear I am up to no good under the curve of my right breast, saucily strewn below my heart. It’s brash and I’ll probably blush when I shed my school clothes and slither inside the dress’s silken embrace.
I wear my secrets sewn to my skin and still hardly anyone will notice.
