I Don't Hate Christmas

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I don't hate Christmas,

really,


I just hate the visceral jealousy

that I suppress

at stockings hung innocently

in the homes of my friends.


It's not that I hate Christmas,


It's just the impulse I get

to seclude myself on a mountain

at the sight of city decor

lighting up streets, homes, and stores.


It's not Christmas' fault


that I get the urge to cope

with sweet oat nog and cookies

so I can at least taste nostalgia,

alone in my car,

before regretting my sugar intake.


I promise it's not Christmas


it's just the constant chill down my spine

whether from the cold

or from bodily flashbacks that come with

seeking physical closeness with others.


It can't be Christmas


that has me reliving all the times

my mother threw my unwrapped gifts at me

a couple days too early

as she screamed slurs and insults

in my direction.


I love Christmas, I do,


I just hate the fear of being left

that my mother instilled

by running away,

having me believe it was forever,

and wondering what I was to do

if CPS found out

that I was alone.


I don't hate Christmas,

I just regret my conditioning

to expect to receive joy from others

and to be encased in unconditional love

by those I once called family.


But,


as I break down,


and curl up to scream


into my own arms,


I think


maybe I'll let myself hate Christmas


just this once.






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