Tinsel
Spattering sparks flicker
in her eyes, highlighting
each salty rivulet as they
roll down on to the
carpet stair.
The jolly tunes are her
confidant,
the garland and tinsel her jury.
“The car snapped in half,”
she hears, failing to grasp how
souls can be plucked like
birthday cake candles,
leaving deformed icing
no one wants to lick.
It is indeed a white
Christmas,
bloodless and loveless,
deathly pale with tended
fangs looking for love for
sale.
As she cries, and as the
little drummer boy’s
snare pops drag slightly
behind her bare sobs,
she imagines how he sleeps in
heavenly peace,
his remnants reserved in
her every last teardrop.
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