Merry Christmas.

I'd be the pavement beneath your feet
and let you walk all over me.
Crippled by the back pain,
but longing for the touch.

A sparkle in the midnight sky,
just to see you look up.
A shiver and shake at those blue eyes,
though they'll never fill with love.

And I accept that, I do
but I want to be the ATM you come to
and take as much as you can out of me.
It's only because I need that touch.

I'll be the chicken you carve,
slice me into bits,
and hand me round that table
as Christmas day turns to Christmas night.

For I know I won't be with you.
No, I cannot be that Christmas tree,
or the sink in which you wash your hands.
There isn't a space for me.

So Merry Christmas from the shadows,
the ones that creep across your wall,
you'd never go and touch them,
but I'd rather be something than nothing at all.