My Uncle suggested I write a poem called "How the Drunks Ruined Christmas." In honor of his surgery this past week and everything my family went through this Christmas, here it is. Enjoy.
How The Drunks Ruined Christmas (My Heart is a Battlefield)
My heart is a battlefield when it comes to you. Do you know how many times I’ve thought that? We are at war, but there are no medics, no geneva convention and no treaties. Every hit is below the belt.
Trees curl into nighttime as the sun winks into a magenta moon. It rises above the mangled treetops, icy branches so entwined, yet never touching. So wrapped up but never cozy. Holly clings to our front door. The snow is our fresh new beginning and everything’s beautiful. Until.
Deck the halls and tear down the holly. Fa-la-la-la-la and a bottle of rum.
Ornaments crack, one by one, like bubble wrap in your fist. Clouds of glittered glass spread like angel dust across the floor. And though this may not be the beginning, I am sure it’s not the end. There are scars I can not leave behind. There are holes in this house that we can not fix.
There is only me standing my ground by the fireplace, and our girls packing god knows what in their suitcases upstairs - ten barbies, three lollipops, one little mermaid costume. All necessities for a life without you.
I’m calling this the last time. You lash out and there is no medicine but no medicine. There is no ice cold shower way out of this.
Mouths gape with screams so high only the dogs can hear. Feety pajamas double as clothes and we pile into a dark, cold car. There is no saving the presents, the pie, or us. There is only the feeling of thumbs on the soft part of my neck. The smell of your breath. The taste of your words.
No sirens squeal in our direction. No one will save us tonight. Bits of shattered glass cling to my hair. A dog barks. The wind howls. Blood splotches our footprints in the perfect white snow. Your shadow fills the front door. And my heart is a battlefield.
My love fights a war that it doesn’t want to win.