I deny myself three times, before the sun has even got her slippers on.
It is Christmas Eve,
and I am beside myself,
down by the river,
I stare at the spirit that inhabits my skin,
and I throw rocks at her until she ripples and fades.
There is tinsel in my hair and torment in my heart,
because all I want is denied to me,
too big (and too obvious) to be hiding under my tree,
and I just wrote a record about Christmas love,
so now I’m lost in my Christmas loneliness.
I could have company.
I could have a warm body to wake up to,
it’s just a few swipes away,
but I’m running away from quick answers,
because I don’t like quick,
I want consequential,
I want something life changing,
and I wished on a star, so I know that it’s coming,
I just have to do my waiting, but…
Waiting is a solitary activity,
waiting leads to wondering,
and wondering ends in self loathing,
and before you know it,
I’m loading up a long list of reasons why I don’t deserve to be loved,
like the girls in my Christmas songs.
I guess I’ll wait,
and I guess one day, she will greet me,
like the feeling of waking up on Christmas morning, when you are still young enough to do so without being cynical,
and the joy will join each inch of my bones.