The Dragonfly

You said you liked my hair long and I grew it out even if we didn’t speak anymore. 

I knew you thought of me too but wondered how heavy my name was in your mouth, like a silver coin under your tongue or the wine stained red on your lips.

In the winter, I bore back the remnants of what was left in the top drawer, junk mostly, a few lost cards, all but your lower spine, tacky jewelry. 

I pressed my hopes into amber and buried them in the ground, the dirt catching under my nails.

I kept one, this brittle dragonfly wings beating in despair, and ate it whole at midnight, no sound, no word.

I cut my hair clean off, after that, like I felt I was supposed to. 

It wasn’t defiance and it wasn’t love; it was a truth I couldn’t tell myself.