A poem about a man who led me on and never returned my scrunchie.
(Title inspired by “All Too Well (10 Minute Version) (Taylor’s Version) (From The Vault)“)
Don’t you dare give away my scrunchie,
the one my mother made me and I wore and
you took out of my hair the last time I
saw you.
Don’t lend it to one of your kind friends
when they stay the night at your house because
they have nowhere else to go, not the friends
who loved me.
Don’t give it to your next conquest, after
leading her on and through the streets of
Downtown Bryan for six hours in the cold,
hands nearly meeting.
Don’t give it away at a White Elephant,
where the receiver will laugh when you say
it belonged to your ex-something, but the
craftsmanship is beautiful.
Keep it at your bedside. Make the connection
in your mind. Instinctively reach out for it,
only to be overwhelmed by the smell of my shampoo
and notice a stray hair.
Gently remove it before twisting the strand around
your finger, remarking at the golden shine,
the softness, the color, and hear the ghost
of my voice.
Let your body go numb like it does when
someone plays a Taylor Swift song or talks about
the Mandalorian and achingly wonder if you did something wrong.
Because you did.
So don’t you dare give away my scrunchie,
the one my mother made me and I wore and
you took out of my hair the last time I
saw you.
Because you deserve all the feelings that come with seeing it.