They're laughing.
Smiling.
Being happy.
Happy Happy Happy.

It's hot in here.
Marshmallows being roasted near a fire.
Presents being put down.
Cards on trees.

It smells like family.
It smells like relations.
It smells like happiness.
It smells like living.

I can't touch them, I can't.
It hurts.
Every Christmas hurts.
The smell of eggnog fills the air.

They sit at the table and pray.
My mother weeps.
It's been three years.
She's not over it.

I want to cradle and hold her.
Tell her it's okay.
Tell her I'm alright.
But I'm not alright.

She can't see me.
Nobody can.
Not even myself.
It hurts.

Every Christmas I relive the same thing.
The flashing lights.
The horns.
The sirens.

The sound of my spine cracking in the all wrong places.
The sound of my mother crying in the ambulance.
The sound of my siblings arguing with doctors.
The sound of my life support being pulled.

It's alright, I'm here.
Christmas can continue.
Just hold me and tell me it's okay.
I need to talk.

Someone.
Anyone.