Red Dress
She walks into the room
and the wine in every glass
goes quiet.
The red dress fits like a secret -
silk over a blade,
lipstick over teeth that never learned to pray.
They call her charm.
They call her fire.
They never check what’s burning
under the hemline.
Her heart isn’t a heart at all.
It’s a locked room with no light,
where kindness goes to learn
how to be silent.
She smiles, and the smile
has small, sharp corners.
It collects apologies
like pins in a velvet box.
She doesn’t shout.
Evil never has to.
It just leans close,
smells like roses and gasoline,
and whispers,
Trust me.
The red dress is perfect.
Tailored, bright, impossible to look away from.
It’s the heart underneath
that stains the carpet
when it’s done dancing.
Beauty was her alibi.
Cruelty was her signature.
And everyone remembers the dress
long after they forget the bleeding.
©oriole_b
R