Chemi
*.✧ Que Sera, Sera ✧.* | 25y/o fem
- Nov 25, 2025
- 274
Every year i count the hours until the damn tinsel is torn down and the lights go dark.
Until the forced smiles can drop like wet snow from numb shoulders.
I'm so bone-tired of performing joy for people who don't notice the cracks.
Of wrapping myself in ribbons so they can feel they've given me something precious.
Of swallowing the scream so the room stays warm.
Every year the same ritual of erasure:
I light the candle of sobriety, watch it burn steady for a moment,
then pour liquor over the flame until it gutters out in black smoke.
I carve deep new lines into skin that still remembers last winter's grief,
knowing the white ghosts won't fade before the next December arrives.
I cook dishes no one will remember, nod at plans for a year I already mourned,
and whisper to the ceiling there won't be another one.
Yet here I am, still breathing the same cold air.
Winter itself is kind to me.
The sky finally wears gray like I do.
Bare branches claw at nothing, just like my thoughts.
The world looks depressed, hollowed out, matching the hollow in my ribs.
I could love it if December didn't come wearing its mask of cheer,
Didn't demand I numb myself out of existence with alcohol and drugs so they can feel good about themselves.
I hate this month to the marrow.
Not because of the cold, it's the only honest thing left.
I hate it because it asks me to lie louder than any other time of year.
To smile while the knife twists.
To toast to futures I've already buried and spit on.
To pretend I belong at a table where no one sees the blood soaking through my jeans.
One more week of this oscar worthy performance.
Then the calendar turns and maybe, just maybe,
I can stop holding my breath long enough to feel the hurt without apology
Merry Freaking Christmas Everyone
Until the forced smiles can drop like wet snow from numb shoulders.
I'm so bone-tired of performing joy for people who don't notice the cracks.
Of wrapping myself in ribbons so they can feel they've given me something precious.
Of swallowing the scream so the room stays warm.
Every year the same ritual of erasure:
I light the candle of sobriety, watch it burn steady for a moment,
then pour liquor over the flame until it gutters out in black smoke.
I carve deep new lines into skin that still remembers last winter's grief,
knowing the white ghosts won't fade before the next December arrives.
I cook dishes no one will remember, nod at plans for a year I already mourned,
and whisper to the ceiling there won't be another one.
Yet here I am, still breathing the same cold air.
Winter itself is kind to me.
The sky finally wears gray like I do.
Bare branches claw at nothing, just like my thoughts.
The world looks depressed, hollowed out, matching the hollow in my ribs.
I could love it if December didn't come wearing its mask of cheer,
Didn't demand I numb myself out of existence with alcohol and drugs so they can feel good about themselves.
I hate this month to the marrow.
Not because of the cold, it's the only honest thing left.
I hate it because it asks me to lie louder than any other time of year.
To smile while the knife twists.
To toast to futures I've already buried and spit on.
To pretend I belong at a table where no one sees the blood soaking through my jeans.
One more week of this oscar worthy performance.
Then the calendar turns and maybe, just maybe,
I can stop holding my breath long enough to feel the hurt without apology
Merry Freaking Christmas Everyone
