I sit inside my own grave.
It’s dark and damp because
My tears fall like snowflakes for
The pain of what isn’t but was.

Festivities ring out below me,
And shoppers dream of silver bells,
And children dream of presents,
Except the ne’erdowells

Like me who have destroyed life
Choice by choice by friend by friend
And have no family to welcome home
Or visit at the year’s dark end.

Salty rain occludes my vision
As “Little Drummer Boy”
Turns into a “White Christmas,”
Followed by “Hark,” “Silent,” “Joy.”

But listen as I might I hear
No joy, silent or otherwise.
All the traditions and songs
Of youth have been but lies.

My family doesn’t want me,
And I’ve no money to see them.
The only things they’d talk about
Are men and why I’m so slim.

“You need to eat more, honey,
The wind could blow you away.”
“Are you seeing anyone new now?
Old maids have no wedding day.”

I’m not anorexic. Why should I eat?
I don’t have enough will to live;
I only nibble enough to survive.
But I’d laugh out something glib

To pretend I hadn’t felt the barb.
And let’s not talk about men;
They all take advantage of me.
I don’t want their sympathy again.

They mock me with their kids
That act so proper and prim.
My brother has a perfect her;
My sister has an upstanding him.

They just want to discomfit me,
But I’ll never let it show.
Their happiness makes me distraught,
So I seek out any beau.

There’s no sex this Christmas;
I couldn’t bear another tryst.
Each time I get hurt worse;
It only hurts once to slit your wrist.

Then, there’s no more pain,
No more heartache and loneliness.
Hell can’t be worse than now
In my socio-emotional abyss.

In fact, it could only be better,
For I’ll end my body’s pain.
I won’t have to live tomorrow;
From fret and worry I’ll abstain.

I’ll need not make more decisions;
I’ll never be hurt by another friend,
Mocked by family, ignored by God,
Or betray my gifts to heartless men.

Not even my mother loves me;
There’s no point in going on.
She should know my pain and call,
But love is muted on the phone.

Let’s have a drink to me tonight,
Perpetually on the naughty list.
Should I choose now the jugular
Or slit useless, petite wrists?

The bathtub. It will drain the blood,
So it’s easier to be rid of me.
That’s all anyone’s ever wanted,
Though I was too hopeless to see.

I brandish the knife curiously—
It’s the present that will unwrap me.
To think we die by such simple means,
When living is a vast complexity!

I can scarcely see my skin
For the salt that stings my eyes.
‘Have some resolve you stupid girl;
Hack away, and silence your cries.

It won’t do to whimper for
For there is nothing for you here.
Why won’t you act? The knife’s so
Close! Don’t be paralyzed by fear.

Do you really want to continue
Being mocked, abused, and ignored?
Each day kills you mercilessly,
Never wiping your blood from its sword.

How many reminders do you need?
No one loves you; Mom will not call.
This isn’t like all the times before,
When you thought, but that was all.

Christmas time calls for red and green;
Your blood and envy paint it true.
Now go ahead, you foolish girl,
I have no more use for you!’

Long slits deep go up my arm;
Pain cries to my head to cease.
My plasma warms the water;
The casket will grant me peace.

There are no tears to mourn me here,
Only gushing tears in my flesh.
It reminds me, oddly, of infantile days,
Of my mother’s soothing caress.

How long have I been here now?
The water’s grown chill; so have I.
I wish I could hear my mother’s voice
Once more before I shortly die.

It’s a struggle now, but I somehow
Manage to drag myself from the tub.
My naked, bleeding body crawls across
The Linoleum floor I used to scrub.

There’s no vitality left in me;
I collapse from hands and knees.
I cannot make myself go,
Despite my curses and pleas.

‘Goodbye, mom,’ I think softly,
Since whispers are now beyond me.
I hope somehow she can hear me,
Know I love her, and be glad I’m free.

I lie here face down as I ebb,
Drawn like the low tide by the moon.
Something prickles at my memory,
And I’m trying to place the tune.

“I’ll be home for Christmas?”
Wryly I think that I’ll be gone.
What is that faint ringing noise?
Is it the last time I’ll hear the phone?

I wonder who it could be?
Just leave a message; I won’t reply,
For I’m drifting off to ether,
And my spirit the stars will pass by.

“Honey, this is your mother calling,”
Those words by tinny noise relayed
Have given me a spark of energy;
Maybe death can be delayed.

I inch ahead with bloodstain smears.
“It’s Christmas Eve. I worry about you.
Call me when you get this message.
Merry Christmas. I love and miss you.”

Her words died out as did my strength,
Finding me ‘neath the Christmas Tree.
Its lights are dark just like my joy.
My veins and stockings are empty.

A yuletide wreath of blood surrounds me;
Sight’s dim; I hear music for the last time.
“So have yourself a Merry Little Christmas,”
And drink to me and “auld lang syne.”