You wake up
probably from a coma
The living room
(haha, "living")
is littered
with beautiful boxes
oh
the paper, all the paper
it cradles an image ("emblazoned")
of you at your worst
and you
oh
you just tear through it all
The dead and decorated tree
watches you open every box
It shudders, thinking of its roots
out there somewhere
"Where is my family?"
is a thought you don't have
handfuls of priceless
and imaginary gems,
all for you,
all from some god,
you were so good
this year
as you admire your gifts,
Everything Your Heartless Chest Deserves
slithers down the chimney
with care
and sits in a circle around you
Happiest, Useless
Holidays
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