I was nine,
the last time I wore a skirt.
It wasn’t the prettiest I owned,
not the only one either —
but I loved it anyway,
maybe because it was
the last skirt I wore.
It was plain white, I remember,
with tiny blue flowers —
just like the tiny squeaks
he always subdued with his hand.
It reached a little below my knees,
the last time I saw it in the mirror.
But then I heard a voice
in another room,
and the mirror replayed it all —
clearer than any video ever could.
So I changed into
my skinny jeans,
hoping they would save me —
because they covered
my ankles too.
And slowly,
I forgot
I once loved skirts too.