Whisper of Silk

I was born beneath lamplight,

my first breath a whisper of thread,

drawn through silk that sighed in the hands

of women whose fingers

knew patience better than prayer.

Their needles kissed me into being—pearls stitched like constellations,

lace unfurling like dawn,

seams pressed with a reverence

as though I carried their hopes

tucked in every hidden fold.

I learned the hush of the workroom:

the scrape of shears,

the hum of voices bent low,

the rustle of fabrics

awaiting the master’s eye.

And then—I rose into the salon,

where chandeliers spilled stars across me,

where women of power

turned their bodies into temples,

their laughter edged with diamonds.

They called me beauty,

envy,

art.

But I remembered the seamstress’ hands

their rough palms brushing my hem,

their quiet pride sealed

in the lining no one would see.

I am the vision of a man,

the dream of a house,

but I carry, always,

the breath of the women

who stitched me whole.