Chrissy

Aromas of bleach and cinnamon

permeate the air

of the tiny shotgun house.

Christmas night,

and all is temporarily well,

 before evil enters in

such are most holidays, and week-ends

 Tenderly, I press Chrissy’s back,

 a present from the morning festivities,

then snatch her hair to make it long,

sick and tired of her short do.

Sleepy eyes compel me to bed

but feelings of consternation

forbid my eyes rest.

Evil enters in,

as he usually does,

in spite of my pleadings

 for the alternative

Suddenly the aroma comprises

 elements of burning and wine

The dark room is penetrated

 with an eerie orange light

My tearful screams are no match

for the raging shouts of anger

Of what fuels this anger,

 I cannot be sure,

 but it manifests itself

in the strange orange light

 at the end of my bed

Screams surrender to whimpers

 as I struggle to comprehend

this perplexing blaze;

too fierce to be a candle

 the non-fire bearer apprises me

of the proper name: Flare

within my soft sobbing I pray

 for the flare to consume the bearer

Drowsiness converts to dreadful fear

of burning flesh and hair,
mine, Chrissy's

Fear mixes with sadness,

 Oh that he would disappear, or be normal,

or die.

The calmness of the non-fire bearer

pacifies the anger,

 the room concedes to darkness

Trembling exhaustion

abolishes former emotions

I press Chrissy’s back and shorten her hair,

sick and tired of her long do

 and drift away

I hate holidays, and week-ends.