DRAFT: This module has unpublished changes.

 


 

 Photo by Daniel Finley

 

Made in
Bangladesh

 

Your eyes become fixed upon it, you marvel at its quality, thinking--how could such a price be matched to such a gem?
So thought i when i was sold to make dresses like the one you try on now, sold for the lowest price but purchased to make warm the beds of frigid cowards nicknamed men.
But that is not what you see
You see the work of a master seamstress, of a manipulator of fabrics,
But Behind that fabric,behind the bright hues of color, lie a dark tale of fingers that have bled and trembled at the merciless hands of my commander.
You see that flower over the left breast?How it is fully blossomed without a petal out of place?
Imagine how my petals were plucked, ripped at the root, stripped of the beauty behind its initial purity until it was unrecognizable except for the lingering resemblance of a wilting stem
Does the smell of the store really mask the smell of the sweat that dripped from my forehead, did my tears not stain ONE INCH of the fabric that so comfortably wraps itself around you?
Does the image of unclean hands not strike you as you pull the dress over you, as such hands befell me?
All my questions are to go on unanswered in silence, despite the cries i thought would travel seas as did the dress!
So i present to you the only proof of my existence--it was made here in Bangladesh,as i was, but it is i who shall die here--worn more than the dress you have already forgotten.

 

 

                                                E M I L Y   E R N A U

DRAFT: This module has unpublished changes.