The Second Christmas
The tree still glows, its branches dressed in light,
But shadows linger deep inside tonight.
This is the second Christmas I’ve endured,
Where joy feels distant, stolen, obscured.
I am barely here—my body worn,
A fragile vessel weathered and torn.
Seizures claim many moments, confusion takes the rest,
And I, a ghost of who I was, try my best.
The gifts lie waiting, wrapped with care,
Yet my hands are too weak to meet them there.
The feast, a symphony of love and art,
Sits untouched as this illness tears me apart.
I retreat to my room, away from it all,
The lights are too bright; the sounds only call
To the pain in my head, sharp and unkind—
A world too harsh for this fragile mind.
This isn’t how Christmas was meant to be,
Not this quiet ache, this silent plea.
I wish I could rise, I wish I could mend,
But I wonder instead if this fight will end.
No star guides me, no warmth to defend,
Just the ache of a season I cannot transcend.
Christmas fades like a song turned to air,
Leaving only the grief I can hardly bear.
-Giusiana