Hyacinths

There is no opening for your fist between my breasts – no place for you to remove the heart. It closed over long ago, as pink as a lip pulled over teeth. I taught myself this: the shutting of my body like a door locked tight. How dark the blood – how almost black; how smooth like a stone you skipped in the summer. How kept.

You clench your hand.

I left the girl I used to be behind. Turned her nightgowns into white flags; their cool cotton casting crescent moons into the sky. Under the new light, I bury her body. Collapse the bones like a cardboard box.

How much beauty I’ve grown from her rot.
How large the garden. I’ve not forgot.

Dark purple flowers cast their shadows in the wake of all I’ve lost.

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