Sleep as a Hobby

A day is cold; a girl can see her own breath of life.
A dusty glass window beside is covered with frost,
A little girl not older than ten is locked outside on a veranda.

The sky is darkening to icy blue
It is reaching for her; a cold thing, a dark thing.
Hands as white as bone and snow
She crouches and clenches her legs tightly
Warmth sieves through her claws like desert sand.

Whimpering,
She desperately bangs a glass… locked door beside.
Daddy, let me out! I won’t cry, let me out!
Is he sleeping?

Her runny nose is red like Rudolf,
Not Santa, she whispers herself, not Santa.
Clever girl knows it was her dad dressed in Santa.

Shivering, she punches a sliding glass door, bang.
Making noise might wake him up.

But… she drops her hand feebly.
He hates noise; he hates a child crying like a child.
A bitter dry cold was too much for a little girl.
Her body is numbing with stiff pain and blue,
Her thumbs have dry crevices trickling with blood.

He won’t let me out, till I give the right answer.
Silence will unleash the sentence
The obedient girl keeps her breath as silent as possible.

Santa doesn't like crying kids.
Only the dripping sound of tears fills the air

Daddy let me out.