The tree stands in the corner, vibrant and full,
its needles still bright, though winter presses close.
There is joy in the room, but it feels stretched thin,
the space between smiles a little wider than it should be.
The fireplace crackles, but its warmth cannot erase
the coldness that lingers in corners of the heart,
memories too heavy to hide beneath the cheer.

You watch as others unwrap their joy,
but the wrapping paper feels thin,
the ribbons untied, the colors muted.
There is laughter, but it tastes of something sour—
the kind of laughter that echoes too loud
because it is hiding something you don’t want to speak.

Christmas is supposed to be light,
but this year it feels like a burden
draped in tinsel, asking you to carry it
as if you don’t already have enough weight
in your hands.