12 days of

1 is for the tree 

that you're stringing with last year's tragedies

and cracked budgets.

2 is for the homemade ornaments

that burned a hole through your innocence.

It's when you strung the lights,

the lights that are one second closer to burning out.

you are one second closer to burning out.

two seconds.

three.

3 is for the cookie cutters,

when the edges became dull and your veins outgrew the lines you drew.

and no one forgot how you traded the cookies in,

for bad TV and dark lipstick.

4 is for the scarves that dressed your baby necks

and got tighter with the years

until you were suspended from the ceiling 

by mistakes and swear words.

5 is for the fingers you covered with gloves

to keep the cold out,

and the scars silent.

6 is the number of family members who won't make it.

And 7 may be the number of gifts with your name,

but 0 is the number of surprises under the wrapping.

There are 8 doors with 8 bows, 

and 8 is when you stopped wearing ribbons in your hair

to make room for a bigger life,

even if that life came with brittle smiles

and forgotten prayers.

9 is the circle wreaths,

the number of times you believed in infinity

and thought about ending it.

And I don't know much about 10,

but it should've come with tissues.

11 is the snow that didn't stop you.

When you gave names to your projects,

and all the beautiful things came with carrot noses.

And you were sad eyes at the window, 

watching the sun soften your big ideas.

Not much has changed.

But 12 is you.

Your melted candles and heavy hearts.

Shattered screens and cold feet.

12 is the anchor you tied your ship to,

to keep the flames from burning your hearts,

and the glass from cutting your toes.

The lights on 12th Street survived past midnight,

even if you don't think you will.

and I don't know if you knew this,

but the lights are brighter

after midnight.