Christmas Lights
I may as well have reds rub shoulders with purples, let yellows highlight greens.
Each year, I twist coloured candles into place and turn them a little tighter in their holders, their usual squeak unruly, mocking
my attempt to break. I drape roughly while they wink their vows of comfort, promise pleasing scenes in which only they will fit.
My fall comes when I catch my father in a narrow eyed inspection. Big as a house, he bought them, beaming ice and fire.
And so I plunge again, alone, into his arms of fondness, arms of plenty, and greet this ghostly, tranquil fraud.
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