deepundergroundpoetry.com
Eve, Day, after
every Christmas Eve
I'll find my black long-sleeved shirt
with thumbholes cut at the ends
paint my fingernails black
and act like everything I am is wrong
every Christmas Day
I'll think of rainclouds and not the sun
see only blackness where colours run wild
on trees and boxes and along the gutters
and act like everything about it is wrong
after every Christmas Day
I'll think of something sallow, frothing, still
fill my lungs with what life has left behind
throw another silver tree away
and act like I shouldn't celebrate the day
ever again
I'll find my black long-sleeved shirt
with thumbholes cut at the ends
paint my fingernails black
and act like everything I am is wrong
every Christmas Day
I'll think of rainclouds and not the sun
see only blackness where colours run wild
on trees and boxes and along the gutters
and act like everything about it is wrong
after every Christmas Day
I'll think of something sallow, frothing, still
fill my lungs with what life has left behind
throw another silver tree away
and act like I shouldn't celebrate the day
ever again
Published 24th May 2015
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