In her hands...

Triggers are enigmatic, willful sort of things, don't you think? He asked me that once.

I remember the occasion. It was summer; barbecue weather. Between mannerisms and curiosities, he'd been nibbling at burger. I didn't pay much attention to what he was saying at first; instead, I had been focused on the way his soft, peach lips nuzzled the tip of the bun, one tiny, lucky nip at a time. I once let a horse eat a slice of bread out of the palm of my hand...I wondered whether the golden fuzz that covered his chin would be quite as silky, quite as lovely. But then he dropped a great dirty splotch of tomato sauce on his shirt, right over his heart, and I was distracted.

It blossomed out like a bullet wound. The starched white made the red seem deadly; infectious. He was embarrassed, of course. What is it about stains that repels us so?

It may have been the talk about triggers, and it may have been the sauce, but after that I simply couldn't stop thinking about abrasions. I could only stare at that big old stain, growing bigger by the moment.

A woman had broken his heart; he told me so, once. I don't know why he told me. But I remembered it that day, as he sat there dabbing away at his lapel with my soggy blue handkerchief. It seemed pertinent.

It's silly, I know, but what I wanted to do was plug up that void, that terrible heart-hole. I wanted to sew it up with ten thousand little stitches; knit it together with warm, pink wool. I wanted to make the bleeding stop.

That's what you do when you love somebody.

Dreaming of a White Christmas...

Icy breaths that flood the fine filagrees of my red veins blue; chest aflame from the stale lung-air of cold cadavers just out of the icebox. Oversized hands in too-small mittens that fray at the edges, pink skin scrambling to inch beneath the woolly warmth of coffee-stained palms.

A reindeer nose pressed to the wet pane of big city views; and white origami roofs that light up the constructed yellow night of a snow-swept metropolis trying to close it's eyes on the world. A fire that crackles in the grate like a stock whip; bed hair; white sheet togas that bandage around limbs imprisoned by limbs; a flesh knot held together by a common love for all things merry, bright and giving.

A gift-wrapped heart sits in wait at the foot of a towering pine dressed in his crystal best, while bejeweled emerald fingers stretch away from a five-point chapeau that dances with the brilliant reflection of firelight.

It keeps out my cold.

But then again, so does winter.

Adeste fideles

I twirl the ornament on my left index finger, watching the red glitter catch the light.
If I close my eyes I can even smell Christmas- mangoes, a slight dusty smell of cardboard and tinsel and that something else- that magic something that clings to Christmas and makes you feel warm and tingly.

Or maybe that's just the oppressive heat of an Australian Summer?

Whatever it is- I adore Christmas. The decorations, the carols, the lights on houses, the shopping, the wrapping, the cards, the countdown, the brandy cream, the Christmas teevee specials, the creepy old santa dude's in shopping centres who wave and offer practiced joy and merriment. I love it all.

I like spending Christmas eve in a fit of anticipation, I like being woken at dawn to see the presents and the tree in lovely half light, I like the wrapping paper that litters the living room floor, I like christmas lunch and the too-much food, I like the feeling of being completely stuffed and sleepy, I like having the family around- messing with the gifts, laughing about nothing really.

Christmas is fast approaching and I can already tell I'm going to miss it once it's gone- but years are passing by so quickly, it'll be here again in all it's gift-wrapped, commercialised glory.

I can't wait.

The Invite.

The invite. It made her... something.

Not angry. Red had nothing to do with it. Red would have been welcome; welcoming. Her envelope, the yellow cream of month-old milk, was stamped, instead, with a sludgy grey that made her name look hateful. Vile.

The package was lumpy; soft, and sealed with a plastic sticker printed over with the ill-matched coupling of purple and orange. Almost as ill-matched as they were. It didn't even tear - instead, it peeled off slimily, with the brilliantine resignation of a five-a-throw whore pulling her dress over her head.

The content was confusing. Three strips of paper and a piece of rope? No. It was a folded cardboard card tied with a mustard yellow shoe string. Only it wasn't a shoe string. It was cheap, flammable hemp drowned in artificial dye, and had sticky tape rolled around the edges to keep them from fraying.

Tying the knot. As though the metaphor wasn't tacky enough. How appropriate for them. They should have tied the knot a long time ago...

.

.

a noose.

The tawdry seal emblem was replicated on the opening flaps. The purple glared at her; it made her want to squint. Instead, she glared back. The knee-jerk reaction.

Inside, she found herself faced with a sunset - the Kodak kind that sells for a few bob on the front of a thrift store postcard. Everything was golden. She drew her hand back swiftly, worried that the colour was contagious. The lettering had already fallen victim, and she strained to read it. In so many ways.

A wedding. After all this time. That they had intended to scour her face with it, there could be no doubt. She'd look quite the fool with such a garish blush. Perhaps that's why they made the invitation so foul.

No. It didn't make her angry.
Red had nothing to do with it.

*photospam*

.

Keyboards are abominable creations. The letters are too brazen. Stare by stare, we pass the time frowning at one another, each trying to provoke a reaction. The keys dare me to hit them, and I do. Dupable to the end.

Prints-first, my fingers tap, tap, tap away, not bothering to stop and take stock. Idiots. Every mindless digit. A carnage of A's E's and I's splay across the page. Consonants are scattered about; ink splattered dead on a red, red stage. Words. Who ever let me get a hold of them? Words are for wordsmiths; delicate, and to be used with care. When did I ever heed such a warning?

Do me a favour? Break my fingers?

Headed for a fallout.

I can't think of you without hearing something hiss.

You were always good at hissing. The air rushed through the walls of your teeth with a strange musicality; a soundscape of double-talk and betrayal. I don't know when it was that you became such a monumental hypocrite, but dear, such is life - say 'hello gorgeous' and greet the face in the mirror. We're taking bets on whether you can find yours.

I'm furious at you, really, I am. Bidding me to snap out of this and that - though you're surely an expert on snapping by now, I wish you would bite your tongue; bite it off and never bother me again with your fucking scolding.

Instead, you bray liberally about things that aren't important to either of us anymore. You take what's offered and use it as necessary, discarding the leftovers when they become too heavy for your featherlight loyalties.

The tea's done, the tea's done.

I think I hear the kettle boil.