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Black Lace

When the sun fades, and evil Night arrives,
We trade in our whites and our tans, our suedes and our cotton
We slip on Night itself before we go out;
Who knows if it will still be on when we come home.
The intricate patterns, the majestic feel,
There is nothing we love more than the secrecy of it.
Fierce.
That’s how we described it, because that’s what it was.
It made us feel bold, like women of purpose.
It was rare in those days, for women were supposed to dress for Day.
Not us.
Scrappy petticoats and shawls were for the tedious, the dull.
Night stripped the dullness from us, made us naked but not vulnerable.
Night was strong, we were strong.
Night was mysterious, we were mysterious.
Night was ferocious, as were we.
Our parents didn’t know of course, they were too wrapped up in the overcoats of Day. We shared Night so that the gold in our hearts wouldn’t outweigh our feeble pockets.
It was Night that freed us, coerced us, and corrupted us.
It was truly scandalous.
Everyone wanted it.
Or so we thought, because we wanted it every second.
But the sun must rise again, and dawn must break.
So we sneak back in and remove Night from our bodies.
We could never remove it from our souls.




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