But My Filters Stop the Lonliness

I am the Christmas aftertaste

solitary, beneath paper and ribbons

praying that someone

someday

will be that person

like they are in the words that fill the pages

so there will be no more all alone Christmases

wishing and wanting and nothing more than

Praying, writing

but worse and worse.

The words are nothing anymore, just scribbles

in hopeless books that

don’t come close to what I’m supposed to be,

because how could anyone ever

even

love

me?