Christmas Baby

An entire month of lost souls –

Bodies buried in the snow,

Their gravestones adorned

With colorful bulbs.

23 years overshadowed,

And when I get joke-angry with mom

For scheduling a nail appointment

For just herself on that day,

Her sister-in-law tells me

“You’re a grown adult.”

I forgot

That the cutoff for caring about people

Is 16.

Silly me, for thinking that surviving

Every year that we possibly can

In this one-in-a-million event

That we participate in called “life”

Should be celebrated

Whether you are turning 9 or 99.

But, is it really the holiday…

…or is it just me?

Because when my brother screams at me

For “making plans without him” to hang out,

He does not hear my screams, my pain,

At having to be the one to make plans

To hang out with my brother

On my birthday.

But he would not have asked

To hang out anyway.

So, can I really blame you, Christmas?

When I have always been the one

Making the plans, begging for time,

Just trying

To be loved half as much

As I love the rest of this world?

And am I selfish, then?

Selfish is when you want

All of the world’s eyes on you.

Selfish is a dirty word, I’ve been told,

But “fair” is not.

Fair is fair, and fair is good.

Is it selfish to want back

Just a piece of what I put out,

Instead of having my hand broken,

Beaten down and stomped on

Every single time I extend it?

Anyway, Merry Christmas.