Opening the card, it reads

‘Happy Christmas, love Santa’,

by double figures, means

‘It’s Christmas, from Mum and Dad’,

declining to seventeen’s

‘Christmas. Mum.’

And you were what was left

of pass the parcel,

layers peeled away,

and in all the excitement

of what you could have been

they saw not what you were,

the suspicious package

in a neglected nativity scene.

Left wrapped

to re-use next Christmas,

left wrapped

to keep warm in winter,

to dress the body modest,

or just for a while,

to stabilise the bones

bubble-wrapped in a box marked ‘FRAGILE’

then set alight to smoke,

breathing in the sticky sweet tobacco,

vacuum-packed for a fresher death,

the little matchstick girl

takes her last breath

and wakes up,

wrapped in your arms.