Defeated

I am tired in ways sleep can’t touch,

angry in places my chest can barely hold.

December showed up with lights and laughter

and I don’t even have the change to fake a smile.

They say Christmas is magic

but magic costs money,

and all I’ve got are overdrafts and apologies

wrapped in shame instead of paper.

I stand in stores full of joy I can’t afford,

aisles screaming buy love, buy warmth, buy enough,

while my pockets echo back at me,

hollow, mocking, loud.

I feel like a failure in tinsel and tears,

counting bills instead of blessings,

counting what I’ve lost

instead of what I’m supposed to be grateful for.

I’m angry at the world for making survival so expensive,

angry at myself for trying so damn hard

and still coming up empty-handed.

Angry that effort doesn’t equal relief.

There’s defeat sitting heavy on my shoulders,

like even hope needs a down payment I don’t have.

I want to scream that I’m doing my best

but my best doesn’t keep the lights on or gifts under the tree.

So I swallow the rage and wear the smile,

because apparently struggling should be quiet,

because apparently poverty isn’t festive,

and pain ruins the photo.

But behind the forced cheer

is a heart breaking under the weight of not enough

not enough money,

not enough miracles,

not enough room to breathe.

If Christmas is about love,

then I wish love paid rent.

If it’s about giving,

then I wish the world gave back

to the ones who are exhausted from holding on