I pinch my fingers
When I put my stocking up
For Christmas,
The lesser pain
Than what comes later,
After Santa has
Come and gone,
After I wake to find
The space beneath
My tree empty and
My stockings
Full of coal,
Each finger,
Still with the pin prick
Bleeding, leaving
A trail of pain I have
No desire to follow
The coal, the least
Of things as compared
To the expectations
Of what I thought
Might occur
What I assumed
I truly earned
Brought back out
Of that Christmas Eve
Dilusion to realise
What I got is what
I deserved,
Even if after all this
The pain is note acute
As it was back then,
I live each night
with the same
three ghosts haunting me,
what happened then,
what happens now,
and what will likely
happened tomorrow,
Coal in my stockings
Even when I wished
For her.
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