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Killing Santa

face pressed against the window—
cold and decorated by winter frost.
eyes straining past the blinds.
searching.
tears on the window sill
that crystallize in the cold.
where was he? was he okay?
no. probably not.
fingers tracing the window
and taunt skin brushed against the cracks.
where was Santa? why wouldn’t he show?
had he fallen from his reindeer?
was he hurt? where did he go?
the truth remained in Daddy’s
santa suit lying in the snow.



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