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The dress was never hers—
stitched in sizes she hadn't grown into,
hemmed with hushes,
buttons made of debts unpaid.
She was called a bride
before she was called a girl.
Milk teeth still clinging,
she learned silence like a second name.
In rooms where laughter should echo,
the curtains swallowed her voice.
Men twice her shadow
knelt with rings sharp as shackles.
They said,
"womanhood comes early in the village."
But the moon knew better—
it hid its face behind the clouds.
Her dolls turned to witnesses.
Her notebooks, to graves.
Each page a confession
in crayon red and trembling lines.
She walked the aisle—
not with dreams,
but with borrowed shoes
and a childhood folded in her palms.
And when the songs were done,
and hands clapped lies into the air,
she bled behind closed doors—
another star vanished before it could burn.
Now the wind chants her name
in corners they forgot to sweep.
A tale told soft, so none will hear—
Except the door, and God, and fear.
Egwuchukwu Faith is a Nigerian poet.
