The Dragon

I’ve forgotten what I love. Or maybe I loved it so much that the love ran out. I can’t remember. My body feels different. I feel like maybe I am not a person. Instead I am a dense fog that could float away into nothing with only a small whisper of wind. The days run together like a letter written in ink left out in the rain. 

I write them down. 

Day 1-

I’m flat like the walls. Except I’m prostrate. They stand upright. The walls have secrets, you know. I don’t know their secrets but they promise to tell me. If I stay like this long enough eventually I won’t be anything anymore. Then I’ll be a wall. 

And I’ll know all their secrets. 

Day 2-

The shadows are alive. They whisper to me. They whisper horrible things in my ear. They stand, lurking over me, upsetting my sleep. They smear purple under my eyes. Their lies crack my skin. 

I am not safe in my own home. 

Day 3-

Violent images flash in my brain—blood and gore. They thrash like an angry dragon, screeching like metal tearing against a subwoofer turned all the way up that rattles my skull. I can’t turn it off. 

It consumes me. 

Day 4-

I have a box. I forgot about the box, but now I remember. It’s a beautiful, silken red box. I lay it flat at the base of my skull and I wait. I wait until, for a brief moment, the dragon cools. I fold the box gently around her, trying not to hit the flailing tail before it coils itself around her pulsating body. 

I close the lid. Carefully still, I wrap the box with a pretty red ribbon and tuck it away. I can still feel her heat through the soft bottom of the box, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. 

It won’t last forever, but I always have another box. 

September, 2021