The Blue Dress

I changed clothes last minute,

a different fabric, a softer hue —

we were running late,

the kind of rush that makes patience

feel like a luxury.

He pulled the dress up too quickly,

a careless tug, a quiet rip,

and just like that, something lovely was ruined.

No “sorry,”

just silence wrapped in blame.

He said it was my fault:

because I took too long,

because time was slipping,

because I should’ve known better.

But I did know better:

to care for what I wear,

to move with grace,

to show up even when everything feels undone.

Then he said the words

that cut deeper than the tear,

that the dress doesn’t fit me anymore,

that I’m forcing myself into it,

as if I should shrink

to make comfort for his eyes.

The fabric wasn’t the only thing stretched thin: It was my patience, my softness,

my belief that love always means kindness.

His tone was sharp and careless,

a mirror held up to what he couldn’t understand,

that this body has carried storms and sunrises,

children and change, grief and growth.

It wasn’t just about the dress.

It was about gentleness,

and how often women have to ask for it,

even from the ones who claim to love them.

I wanted to tell him,

this isn’t a dress that doesn’t fit,

it’s a woman who’s evolved.

The seams are just learning

to hold all she has become.

So I said nothing.

Not because it didn’t hurt,

but because I’ve learned,

some apologies never come,

and some lessons don’t need to be taught twice.

I may have outgrown the dress,

but not my worth.

And if he can’t see the woman

standing in front of him: stronger, wiser,

stitched together by endurance,

then maybe he’s the one who no longer fits…