i will never touch a christmas tree again.
the bristles, serrated. the bristles, poisoned. the bristles, double edged.
the ornaments shatter between my fingers.
i clean up puddles of blood and say i'm sorry.
at least it matches the color scheme.
your christmas tree, covered in candy canes and mini skeletons and cigarette smoke and shiny things and OCD and now, my blood.
you said it looked like it was dying.
i said it looked like me.
twisting under the pressure.
i can never play the guitar again.
the strings, screech. the strings, breathe.
you sing the songs your ex girlfriend wrote and i am so guilty.
i am shrinking.
i am taking something that is not mine.
and your tree is wilting and you sing so beautifully.
i am shaking.
mocked by the ghosts in your home and the bones that you hang on your tiny little christmas tree.
i dropped cigarette ash into the cushions of your favorite chair.
i did not tell you.
as you sang me your blues, i buried my bones there too.
do not dig for me.
do not sing for me.
and suddenly i am crying for your ugly little christmas tree.
this room is caving in on her.
this room is caving in on me.
i'm only bones and smoke and blood and the humming underneath it all.
this is the third year in a row we do not speak during december. this is the third year in a row i'll buy you christmas presents and keep them. this is the third year in a row i feel so small. so silly. so ugly. so tiny.
Copyright © Stella Healy | Year Posted 2018
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
to post a comment