The Roller Girl of Nowhere Dress

She swore she’d see the world — then got stuck at the edge of her mattress.
Her shoes remember movement. Her body does not.
She rolls only in dreams now — speed has nothing on surrender.

She said she liked velocity, but what she really liked was the idea of escape.
Old La Perla sheets, a Nars concealer she hadn't touched since September,
and a red dress that reminded her of the trip she cancelled.
Just drifting beautifully through the inertia.
She dressed for the life she ghosted.

Hair wild, soul gentled — she didn’t move, she hovered.
She was always on the brink of going — but never quite leaving.
Waking at dusk in familial linen,
she straps on skates that never touch pavement.

Her journey lives within her — a ledger of unmet expectations and inherited restlessness.
The dress — a scarlet Giza cotton that slips like breath, not fabric.
Bright red, electric blues, a whisper of yellow near the hem —
like bruises from dreams she hasn’t had yet.
A palette not of joy, but of refusal.

The dress used to mean something: a dinner, a kiss, a cigarette she’d quit again tomorrow.
But these days, it’s what she wears to pour cereal at 3AM.
To cry like it’s a lost language.
To stand barefoot at the window and pretend the streetlights are applause.

She tells people she’s taking time.
They nod. They don’t ask how much.
The skates by the bed aren’t nostalgia — they’re possibility.
And she guards them like secrets.

She says she’s conserving energy. She says she’s healing.
But some nights, when the song is right
and the red is just bright enough,
she straps the skates on — not to go anywhere,
just to remember her body still belongs to her.

The fabric clings with the softness of a forgotten vow.
It shouldn’t look this effortless — but it does.
A garment too alive for this stillness. But that’s the point.

She wears it because it reminds her she could go.
And maybe, one day, she will.

material- digital printed Italian Giza cotton dress.