I have this recurring dream

where I dress and undress
myself like a doll, like something
to be viewed at and preened, to be
loved and ultimately forgotten as
time goes on. And of course, you’re
here now, haunting this as you’ve
haunted everything else now. I need
a homecoming dress, because we’ve 
decided to give it another chance. 
I lace up corsets and fasten zippers 
on my own, because my father doesn’t 
welcome you to our home anymore.
I tell you I’ll meet you there soon, but
nothing quite fits right. When I wake up,
instinct wins out and I open my closet.
I survey my options: so much black velvet,
the one I had saved for Valentine’s Day,
but these too are haunted; I ignore
the long silver remnant of the dance, 
now nothing more than a piece of fabric
I refuse to donate, and the Halloween
costume from the boat party shoved
in the corner, never to be worn again.
It haunts my dresser too: the overpriced 
band shirt from our first date, the matching
pajamas I kept for some reason, and
underneath all of that even, the nakedness
you knew better than I did, the body I can’t 
outrun. When I was a girl, my dolls all
eventually ended up naked and bent 
out underneath my bed, just to one day be
found and discarded when I had outgrown 
them. Now the special ones rest atop
my bookshelf, being gazed upon while
they collect dust. I don’t know who gets 
a better fate.