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By Olivia C
the snow doesn’t fall,
but when i’m seven, global warming hasn’t corrupted me yet, the snow doesn’t end
the snow falls, and i celebrate hanukkah with my family, and i go to bed thinking i hear santa claus, and i beg my parents to wake up so i can open gifts circled in a yearly magazine.
i wake up and im fifteen. i dread december. i am locked in a room without windows, instead i see mirrors forcing me to face all of it.
my arms, my stomach, my legs.
my brain that people expect too much of.
i break as the sun implodes and grows closer,
and i sit in a bedroom i didn’t grow up in,
and i wonder and question and beg
why i have felt devoid of holiday happiness since i was eleven years old.
i grew up when i was ten.
i shrunk when i was twelve.
lost it all at thirteen,
was reborn at fourteen,
and at fifteen i am not sure.
but it is December and i am treated like i have to be something more than a kid.
like i have to wake up in an even more monotonous world, with a briefcase full of business, and a suit and tie weighing me down.
i want to wake up and see the snow,
to go to school and not fear being berated for breathing the healthy way.
to love limitlessly and not be taken advantage of.
to celebrate without looking around the corner.
it is december and i am scared, i am stressed,
i am confused, i am quiet, i am cynical.
it is december and i am healthy, i am loud
i am getting ready to move on, i am ready, i am learning.
i may not be perfect, but is december and i am tired.
i may not be a good person,
but i am a menorah sculpted from the most sturdy, rare, sharp, poisonous, beautiful, shiny craft of metal.
and i will scrape you if you are not careful,
and i will illuminate, and show you that even when you don’t expect it, i will shine and i will be appreciated ONLY by those who can understand how valuable light is.