Shrill aunts doting, impersonal gifts, competitive quilts, insincere delight, ridiculous games, stale cake, punch: everything I can’t have.
A box of old letters would explain. I knew we hadn’t split up because of me, but reading told me otherwise. Memory could only spare me once.
He rang the doorbell. When she answered, he stabbed her in the heart. He turned away and cried. He hated his job with the Military Police.
Rolling in the long grass, sipping sweet spirits, holding hands in the sun, kissing in the humid downpour. But that was last summer.
Christmas music fills the air. The elf frolics and dances to happy applause, but she’s not happy. The men drool, and the metal pole is cold.
Grandma got run over by a bus and I can’t stop thinking about that stupid song.