Dear Santa,
I never asked for rape under the tree that year, though my pajamas were snug and the rasping of the plastic pine was soothing. But I never asked for the prolapse. I never asked for the surgery. I never asked for that gin-y breath in my face, that prodding flesh-knot of alcoholic excess searching my throat. All I wanted was a bicycle, but I was left wanting so many other things, and not wanting so many more.
Love, Timothy.
I never asked for rape under the tree that year, though my pajamas were snug and the rasping of the plastic pine was soothing. But I never asked for the prolapse. I never asked for the surgery. I never asked for that gin-y breath in my face, that prodding flesh-knot of alcoholic excess searching my throat. All I wanted was a bicycle, but I was left wanting so many other things, and not wanting so many more.
Love, Timothy.
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