for Christmas

she gives me band-aids to heal wounds that no longer weep blood, but rather rest as scars upon my dry, cracked skin.

she shows up at my door to sing carols, putting stitches into my already whole heart as though her voice will forge something beautiful from my forgettably forgiving soul.

when she leaves, she says goodbye like this time it won't be the last, she's not done punishing herself for punishing me, despite the fact that my body recovered from her touch long ago.

the next time she'll say hi to me in the street it'll be with pity and with sorrow and with joy and with self-fulfillment.

she'll offer to buy me coffee, i'll tell her i don't drink it, she'll smile with her own stained teeth, nod, then walk away without another word.