Maybe I should wait
under the mistletoe.
Wait for her to come
and grab my hips.
Bring me close for
a kiss.
But she glances at
my thin wrist.
With a frown on her face,
her pace now comes to a jult.
Scans my emotions,
her eyes now full of disgust.
The cuts open again.
All that's left is
wilted mistletoe and tear stained
pillowcases.
(m.c.)