Blow Out the Candles

Blow out the candles. The clock chimed 5 o'clock. The wrapping paper is too tight, the ribbons are too long. I can't seem to find the seam where the tape should be holding it closed. The glossy shroud encases the present eternally. I push back my chair and yank myself away. Turning around, I try to forget it's there, sitting on the table. I pace, drawing farther away and then back again countless times, so many times, too many times, and I suddenly lost track of the time. Unable to stand it, I grabbed the candles from the cake and burned the thing. The smooth paper surface shriveled into rough wrinkles until succumbing to disintegration. The ribbons trailed away in ringlets of fire, eventually puttering out into wisps of merely what once was. And from the ashes of its encasement was a bush-- now burning-- leafy and green. I grab my water glass and snuf out the remaining flames. The water splashes and droplets cover my body and the bush alike. The clock chimed 3 o'clock. I blew out the candles.