You could write a poem with the texts you send

It doesn’t feel much like Christmas this year. The only sound

is my father snoring next to me; my mother is snapping

her fingers in the kitchen, as if she wishes dinner to make itself.

I wish dinner would make itself back into the way things used to be:

gathering at my grandparents’ house,

laughter cascading off the basement walls.

Family, time, not seen through the hazy eyes of Prozac.

Is this what adulthood is like? Change,

echoes of distant memories swarming through our brains.

Nostalgia.

Magical when younger, trying to find that same spirit as time marches onward.

It smells like Christmas; looks like Christmas. Maybe

Christmas is more of a feeling than a day.

And I wish you a happy one.

Where were you the moment you found out you’re parents aren’t perfect–

My mom bought me a razor and a turtleneck sweater for Christmas–

The moment your life shattered?

I have a lot going on right now.

I let myself into your office to cry today. Maybe tomorrow I won’t have to.

When it’s not Christmas anymore, I’ll fill you in.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

Now that the anger’s gone. I’m hurting. I’m feeling all the pain I haven’t allowed myself

to feel in years.

Years of hurt pouring into me like a breached levee.

I’ve had nightmares every night since last Tuesday;

I’m terrified to close my eyes.

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