The Dragon Weeping in her Bones
They say happiness is a flame,
brief as a match struck in rain.
I held it once—
a home, two sons,
a husband who smiled like promise.
Until his arms curled elsewhere.
Until his mouth tasted betrayal.
Until I learned beauty
was something I could not hold
no matter how tightly I bled.
The dragon woke in me that night.
Not scaled, not winged,
but clawed in grief,
fire burning holes through my ribs.
If he could snatch away my joy,
I would scorch his world in return.
My children—
his children—
became the tinder.
Their laughter, their small hands,
their faces shaped like his,
drowned in my fury.
But when the river stilled,
their silence came back louder.
My vengeance collapsed into ash.
I touched their lips
and begged them to breathe,
to forgive.
And when the willow trees bowed
like mourners on the shore,
I followed,
slipping into the water’s mouth,
hoping death would undo
what rage had done.
They say I weep at night.
They say I call for them,
cursed to wander, cursed to wail.
But tell me this—
what do you call a woman
whose heart became a dragon,
and whose bones still burn
with the tears she cannot shed?
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