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
