it’s december 23rd and i’m doing the only liturgy i still believe in:
standing in a line.
the line is at the post office—
the place where everyone comes
to mail proof they still have someone.
a woman in front of me is sweating through a cute sweater
that says JOY
in letters big enough
to be legally binding.
she’s arguing with a clerk about “guaranteed delivery”
the way people argue with weather.
“but it’s for my mother,” she says,
as if that changes physics.
the clerk—who has the calm of a man
watching the same ship sink every hour—
says, “ma’am, it’s the 23rd.”
she laughs too hard, too bright.
“i know, i know! we’re all crazy right now!”
crazy.
that’s what we call it
when the calendar holds a knife to your throat
and says SMILE.
behind me, a guy in a suit is holding a gift bag
and a phone and his own panic.
he keeps saying, “no, i’m not stressed,”
into the phone,
which is exactly what a stressed person says
when he’s trying to keep his job
and his marriage
and his “holiday spirit”
in the same small hand.
later i go to the grocery store
because loneliness has errands.
the holiday aisle looks like a crime scene
decorated by children:
tinsel everywhere,
cookie tins with fake nostalgia,
wrapping paper promising REDEMPTION.
a teenager restocking candy canes
says to his friend, dead flat,
“i swear to god if one more person says ‘merry christmas’ to me
i’m walking into traffic.”
his friend says, “same.”
then immediately, when a customer walks by,
both of them brighten up:
“happy holidays!”
the flip is so fast
it’s almost impressive.
the human face is a talented liar.
at checkout, the cashier says,
“any fun plans?”
what she means is:
please say something normal
so i can pretend we’re living in a normal world.
i say, “quiet night.”
she nods like i just confessed a crime.
then she says, softly,
“that sounds nice, actually.”
for half a second
we’re two real people
standing in fluorescent honesty.
then her screen prompts her
and she turns back into the role:
“would you like to donate a dollar
to help families this holiday season?”
i look at the pin pad,
the bright little demand,
the guilt packaged as convenience.
i hit NO
and feel it hit my ribs.
she says, “no worries!”
with a smile that says
we both know there are worries
we just don’t have time.
when i get home, the building is loud.
upstairs someone is hosting a party
with that practiced laughter
people use when they’re trying to prove
they’re not miserable.
through the wall i hear a toast:
“to friends who are family!”
followed by cheers
followed by a glass breaking
followed by someone saying, too quickly,
“it’s fine! it’s fine!”
everyone’s fine this week.
fine is the national anthem.
my phone buzzes.
a group chat i barely participate in
is exploding with photos:
matching pajamas. matching smiles. matching dogs.
someone posts a picture of a tree
and captions it: SO GRATEFUL.
i stare at the photo and try to imagine
the ten seconds before it was taken—
the negotiation, the positioning,
the “no, stand closer,”
the “wait, do it again,”
the moment where love becomes content
because content is how you prove you exist now.
i type nothing.
i send no heart.
i refuse to be counted.
i’m at my kitchen table at 11:40,
eating something sad out of a container
because it’s easier than dishes
and nobody’s watching anyway.
then i open my laptop
and go to Open Arts Forum.
no ads telling me to be grateful.
no curated families.
just poems—
messy, honest ones—
people bleeding in public
without asking permission.
i scroll through lines
written by strangers with names
and for the first time all day
i feel something that isn’t merchandised.
i keep scrolling
until my eyes blur
and the holiday loses its grip.
and i say it, finally—
not as a greeting,
not as a curse,
just as a fact i can live with:
merry fucking christmas, Open Arts Forum.
merry fucking christmas.
