Striped Sugar and Mischief Mouths [Wreath]
By eleven p.m. the tree has slumped into that tired tilt that happens once the kids crash and the adults start pretending they still have energy left for grownup fun,
Wrapping paper drifts across the living room in crumpled drifts of cartoon snowmen and discount glitter, one slipper lost somewhere under the couch like a fallen gun.
Someone left a half-finished cocoa on the coffee table, surface filmed over, marshmallows sinking like tiny ghosts that gave up halfway through the haunting and just sat down,
And hanging from a sagging branch near the back, crooked and tempting, there it is: a peppermint staff of power, striped and smug, calling dibs on my teeth and my crownless frown.
All night I’ve pretended to be good, nodding along while polite relatives discussed “cutting back on sugar” and “being mindful” like that ever worked during December’s riot,
Meanwhile my brain kept drifting to crunch and crackle, that sharp peppermint snap, the rattle of candy cane shards in the bottom of a bowl that never once knew the meaning of quiet.
They hung them for decoration, like ornaments grew bored of being round and decided to cosplay as tiny wizard staffs in red and white war paint,
Yet every one of them whispers promises of tongue-sting, stomach ache, and an hour of jittery joy bright enough to make the neighbors complain and saints faint.
I wait for the thud of the last bedroom door, for the shower to shut off down the hall, for the house to settle into that post-holiday hush where the fridge hum suddenly sounds like confession,
Then I stalk the living room like a sugar-starved dragon in pajama pants, hunting for red-striped treasure with the feral focus of an addict three days past their last sweet obsession.
The carpet crunches underfoot with stray sprinkles and cookie crumbs, and every step grinds last night’s “just one more” into the fibers like crime scene evidence,
Glitter clings to my socks, wrapping paper sticks to my heel, and still the only thing on my mind is that first brutal mint hit and the way it’ll burn with guilty elegance.
I pluck one from the lowest branch, a tiny curved cane with the wrapping half-peeled where some kid poked it and got distracted by a cartoon,
The plastic crinkles in my hands like it knows what’s coming, like it’s giggling along, daring me to commit my late-night sugar heist beneath the droopy moon.
Behind me, the TV sits black and reflective, catching my outline and a faint glow from the tree,
I look like the ghost of Christmas Cravings, hair a mess, eyes wired, grinning at my own reflection while I unwrap holiday dentistry’s sworn enemy.
The first lick hits like a cold slap that somehow counts as a kiss, sharp and clean, peppermint drilling into the grooves of my tongue with surgical precision,
It tastes like childhood spun through a candy factory, like every visit to the mall Santa, every striped stocking, every sugar-high meltdown rolled into one tidy incision.
I wander the room, sucking on that cane like it owes me rent, listening to the plastic hooks on the remaining ones tap-tap against the branches when the heater kicks on,
They sway in chorus, a clacking little choir of bad decisions waiting their turn, each one chanting, “You know you won’t stop at one, come on, come on.”
Maybe it’s the hour or the sugar or the fact that my brain has already taken a sleigh ride off the rational highway,
But the room starts to tilt just enough that the decorations change jobs, the candy canes straighten their backs and negotiate salary.
One hops loose from its branch, lands soft on a pillow, then another tumbles down, rolls across the coffee table and bumps my hand like, “Hey, grab me next,”Soon there’s a small gathering on the couch beside me, striped soldiers scattered across cushions, all flashing that same curved smirk like they read my text.
You stroll back in from the kitchen in holiday socks and an oversized sweater that does dangerous things to the idea of staying wholesome tonight,
Hair pulled up, cheeks flushed from dishes or maybe from the whiskey you didn’t share, lips glossed with something that smells faintly of peppermint and spite.
You catch me with one candy cane clamped between my teeth like I’m auditioning for a very confused pirate ship, shards of sugar in my palm and guilty glitter on my hands,“Caught you,” you say, that sly half-smile making it clear you’re not talking about the calories so much as the midnight raid on everyone else’s plans.
I try to mumble excuses around the sugar, which goes about as well as licking wrapping paper off tape,
You pluck the cane right from my mouth, taste the end, eyebrows climbing, eyes taking a slow tour of my face like you’re mapping out your next escape.“Thought we were laying off the sweets,” you say, but your mouth is already closing around the other end, our fingers brushing as we both hold the same striped sin,
And suddenly this stupid little cane is a tug-of-war rope between us, both of us leaning in, both pretending we don’t already know who’s going to win.
You bite, I bite, the cane snaps in the middle with a satisfying crack that feels louder than it should in the sleeping house,
You chew your half with a slow, deliberate crunch, eyes locked on mine, and now I’m less worried about sugar intake and more about whether we’re about to redecorate the couch.
Peppermint burns up my throat, mixes with the taste of your kiss when you lean in, tongue cool and sharp as if you smuggled that candy inside your mouth just to prove a point,
My pulse starts dancing to some deranged carol, my hands find your waist, and all at once the tree, the mess, the leftovers, the deadlines, everything else disappoints.
We fall sideways into the cushions, laughing too loud, trying to muffle it with hands and kisses and that stupid throw pillow embroidered with “Joy” in crooked gold,
Candy cane shards tumble between us, pressing cold stripes into skin that heats up fast, and the night becomes this ridiculous fireworks show nobody sold.
Your breath tastes like mint and mischief, mine like confession and sugar and a little leftover guilt,
Our legs tangle in blankets patterned with snowflakes that never fall outside anymore, tangled in a fort that chaos built.
On the coffee table, a pile of empty wrappers glints like red-and-white confetti from a party only we attended,
The bowl that once held a proud heap of striped soldiers now contains just a sticky residue and three broken pieces that look offended.
We promise ourselves we’ll buy more tomorrow, that the kids won’t notice, that the dentist can fight us later over this reckless spree,
Right now all that matters is your peppermint laugh against my neck and the sweet chemical itch in my teeth and the candy-cane-shaped bruises on your knee.
Outside, the world might be tilting on its axis, bills might be breeding on the counter, the year might be limping to another chaotic finish line,
But under this tired tree, in this living room full of crumbs and wrinkled bows, we’ve found one small ridiculous ritual that still feels divine.
Maybe craving candy canes is just an excuse to clutch at something simple when everything else gets gnawed down to noise and news and never-ending lists,
Or maybe I just really like the way your mouth tastes after you’ve stolen my sugar, how your grin turns wicked when you realize I’ll trade sleep and enamel just to get another hit of those striped twists.
Later, when the clock creeps toward a time that no longer has a name,
We lie in the peppermint wreckage, sticky-fingered and hollowed out, and I swear the room itself remembers the game.
The candy canes gone from the tree leave bare hooks shining in the dim, and for a second they look like tiny question marks asking if this craving ever really ends,
I lick the last trace of sugar from your skin, grin back at them, and think, not while I’ve got you, not while I’ve got nights like this and a partner in sweet crimes and crooked bends.