It was a dangerously cold Christmas.
I put on my sweatshirt, the beige one with trees all over it.
There is a stench of mothballs,
not very noticeable,
but amid sliding it on
there is a temporary moment of blackness.
It’s usually nice and quick,
but that day it took some time to reach the light up top.
Later, it was difficult to breathe, and the smell grew
I fought to get my arms out,
the lights on each side disappeared, then the top,
I realized I’ve been eaten alive.
I stopped panicking, I accepted my undeniable fate.
At least the warm, fuzzy wool made it bearable.