Mariah Carey Listens to All I Want for Christmas for the 17,859th Time

Here we go again.

This is why I should never go to Starbucks.

No, stop, don’t sing along. Don’t even mouth the words. People are going to look at you.

What more can I do? All I want for Christmas is you. Fuck.

Who was I back then? God, I sounded so good. I was so thin.

Tommy had no faith in me. What an idiot. What a chump. Only Walter knew about the Angel. Only Walter believed me when I told him where the song came from. Tommy just said I needed to stop using Nyquil to get to sleep. As if he would even know about Angels. All he knew about was coke and smiling at people he didn’t know.

The touch of the Angel’s hands, how he smoothed my forehead while I slept, how he touched my bloodied toes like warm water, and his wings enfolded my body, shaking and sore after days of rehearsal. Because Tommy never let me stop. He was just like a giant heating pad, covering me. I was so tired all the time back then, I was so tired and sore and angry. But when I finally got to sleep, when they finally let me go home, he always came back. Until he didn’t.

I should buy a giant heating pad. I wonder if Jeanne’s guy in Taiwan can make me one. Covered in snow leopard skin, like a nice big kitty cat to sleep with.

What did I do wrong? Why did he leave me? Was I not pretty enough? Everyone tells me I’m pretty, but everyone lies, they can’t help it.

Angel, I wrote the song you told me to. I sang the words just the way you sang them to me. And it made everyone happy, just like you said it would. It’s still making everyone so happy. Look at all these people here singing along to it, decades later. But you left me. Were you just done with me? Was that all I was, an instrument of your idea, and once it was made real, there was nothing left of me to use? Did I not do it right?

I won’t make a list and send it to the North Pole for Saint Nick.

I know that’s not where you came from.

I just want you here tonight, holding onto me so tight.

I’ll go back to that terribly empty rented Aspen cabin now, filled with other people’s things, other people’s wealth. I’ll still be there alone, I’m always alone. These men try, but they always leave in the end. Once you hear the voice of the universe singing in your head, how can you be anything but alone, all the time? I’ll just stare into my diamonds and try to remember what it looked like when you filled my eyes. When you showed me the planets of glowing snow and puppies and air that tasted like cinnamon-laced mother’s milk and made every word I thought pop like fireworks in the dripping tinsel skies.

You made me a different species, Angel. It’s your fault I am a gilded alien, an outcast, a refugee from Christmas World. You trapped me like a small bug in a jar, brought me inside from the cold for just a few nights, and then released me back into the dark night where nothing will ever be clear or warm or sane. Nobody loves anyone here in the Dark World, Angel, not the way they could love. They sing the song, and they see the shadow of Love, but they can’t even imagine what it was really like. I’ve been to Christmas World. I know that rush of blood and the light of acceptance. You were a cruel and terrible interruption, to show me a thing I couldn’t have. I could have been happy. You were just like Tommy.

I hate this world. I am too big for this mean, shitty, broken body. I am too big for this small head, and these boobs are too heavy. I want to stretch my arms so wide my muscles turn into ribbons of glowing matter and spread across the atmosphere like asteroids falling. All the lights are shining so brightly everywhere, and the sound of children’s laughter fills the air, and then I open my eyes and I’m standing here in this stupid Starbucks watching this blonde WASP bitch try to order a frappachino with no sugar, and I could just have her killed. I could just call Nino and he would take care of her right now, in the street. Children would scream at the sight of her blood on the snow. But what’s the point? It didn’t make me feel better the first five times, it’s just raging against the hordes of emptiness.

I dream of you. I dream that in the middle of the night, I wander down the glass staircase, and there you are standing right outside my door. Waiting for me to open it.

Come back for me. Don’t leave me here among these broken things. Make my wish come true. All I want for Christmas is you.

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