Elf On The (Sad) Shelf
Cold and depressing aren't words you should expect from an elf on christmas. Not from the Shoe Making elves, not from Santa's elves. No one talks about the Cookie Making elves. The cookie factory is quiet. Cookies should be happy, uplifting. Our supposedly "homemade" cookies are no longer such. While the humans are on break, their factories are shut down. We become the providers. We work as you rest. We get no break, no pay, no health benefits, not even insurance. While you humans are enjoying your hot chocolate, and playing with snow, we work twenty hours a day in a factory that value their products more than the safety of their workers. Temperatures of less than -49°C, with no heaters, no doors - they don't even let us stay in the oven room, the only room that has heat. No, the North Pole is not like it seems. No legends or stories of us cookie elves. The others get to stay inside, while we work in non-insulated oak trees. There is no safety, no love, no care. The Cookie Making elves have it the worst. But we power dear old fat Santa. We make the cookies that Mrs. Claus say are hers. No recognition, not from Mr. Claus himself. No one even knows why the elves that disappear and get kidnapped are also the elves that appear in the Cookie Oak Tree. No one cares.
dandelions
It's a weed, she said.
the pretty little yellow flower.
becuase her mommy told her
and my mommy told me
but I made a bouquet
and stuck them in a vase
on my bedroom windowsill.
I cried when they died -
when the lawnmower or time
chopped off their golden heads.
then I went to go pick more,
becuase I loved them.
I threaded the stems
into a crown on my hair.
and my swingset was my castle
and my backyard was my empire
and the gardens were my slaves:
I never envied those petals
groomed in careful dirt; no,
I was the queen of the weeds.
In Need of a Wellington
Their life was in need of a Wellington, yes, curly
and easy to kill. Their life was in need of a silly
distraction, something to swap for a pill. They
hadn’t a clue where to find such a thing and feared
for that when they do, it’d make so much noise that
the neighbors would wake and say take it back to the
zoo.
Every Time
Batel turns to face the floor, head down, looking upset.
"I should have known, or at least-"
"Well you didn't know, you couldn't of, don't blame yourself
for not being able to do the impossible."
A chair is kicked away and Batel stands, hands fisted and mouth
tight. "But this, this happens every time. You know? Every. Time.
I try to please them, I always do, I try to do the right thing, I want
to be honest, and when I finally get the courage to BE honest, they
say no, no please never be honest again, in fact, why don't you just lie."
"Batel you don't have to lie, you can tell the-"
"NO I CAN'T. I CANNOT TELL THE TRUTH. I HAVE NEVER
TOLD THE TRUTH TO ANYBODY AND I WON'T START NOW."
"Batel-"
"WHAT. HUH? DO YOU WANT ME TO TELL YOU WHAT I'M
THINKING, DO YOU REALLY WANT ME TO TELL YOU? NO.
YOU DON'T. IT'S JUST GOING TO SCARE YOU, THEN YOU'RE
GONNA GET MAD AT ME FOR SAYING ANYTHING AT ALL......
and you fucking wonder why I don't talk anymore. You sit there and scratch
your goddamn head and wonder, why I keep my mouth shut. Like my lips
are the lock to a safe. And you, you ask, you beg for the key, the same key you
locked me with.
Probably Should
Against the fridge, leaning.
Against the book, reading it page to page.
Watching while the rain falls down.
Your car never came back.
Never drove back to the house
that was dark that night,
roof lit up by the moon,
wound by a rare, glowing ring.
I know that you’ve already forgotten
everything that is making me sad.
Skating around on thin ice,
Didn’t think twice about it.
Reading through pages of writing,
Until you found the one that gave me away.
Sitting in a sad play then, which was too intense.
Sitting in a sad play now, acting like I’m somewhat alive,
messing up my lines every time.
Everytime I get to the top of the stairs,
I have to stand there a second and try not to cry,
but I always do,
eventually.