You wind me up and place me at the top of the stairs and I tumble to my death. The mess that’s left on the bottom step is broken beyond repair but you try to fix me anyway. You know I’d do the same for you... but it’s no good, no, it’s too late. I’m junk that’s barely used. I wake up on a cold damp bed. My eyes are filled with tears for all things that I regret. It’s like this every year. The moon and the sun are laughing at me and the bright white stars won’t listen to me. The darkness is blind to everyone but me and everything I’ve done. I’m feeling like a Christmas tree with my arms outstretched still waiting for someone to come and decorate me and make me beautiful. If you came on Christmas day you would find me packed away inside a box in a cold dark loft, forgotten every year.