*What does Christmas look like from the cheap seats? Maybe something like this.*
(press play for audio)
in the night.
You’re pine cones,
Every smile makes me bleed.
Every kiss breaks my heart.
Every tug of your child’s hand,
my being torn apart.
Every holiday feast
heaps hot coals on my head,
A brutal reminder
of my still barren bed.
You’re the beast of Christmas present,
The poison of Christmas past,
The last breath of Christmas future,
and hopefully my last.
You are the gaping,
tearing through my soul.
You are the unkept promise,
The empty oath,
The flickering flames,
and lies known to us both.
You are the unforgiving torment
boiling in my bosom,
The sterile loins between my legs,
the vacancy of woman.
You’re the person not behind me
at a party when I leave,
The bursting blisters, rising boils
on my skin while I bereave.
You’re the empty pillow beside me,
the blown out candle on Christmas Eve.
You’re tears falling from my eyes,
the spectator while I grieve.
You’re not a single, specific soul,
or the memory of an old flame.
You’re the crowd of people before me,
the faceless, without a name.