All reflections are ghosts
of Christmases Yet-to-be.
There are no bells, none
that are obvious at least.
Brush teeth, comb hair,
making still another face
I hope will stay that way.
This, this is the cold place
I have made for myself.
It gets farther every day,
from you and everyone,
from the world; just a way
for me to cry out I am
hurting under my skin,
in ways I can't describe.
I would have to let you in.
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