{"id":710,"date":"2026-01-02T10:13:43","date_gmt":"2026-01-02T10:13:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lorynthsblog.online\/website_638532f3\/?p=710"},"modified":"2026-01-02T10:13:44","modified_gmt":"2026-01-02T10:13:44","slug":"december","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lorynthsblog.online\/website_638532f3\/december\/","title":{"rendered":"December"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

In this poem, I explore December. Not the month but the system of rules and expectations that apply each and every year during the jolly season. This poem mainly revolves around how we deal with family and obligation while keeping our interior lives to ourselves. Poetry becomes the only outlet, the only way of survival. Merry Christmas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n
At other houses, December
is a verb;
to open, to tear, to arrive.
Paper vomits jingling bells.
Time spills,
sweet and warm,
thick hot chocolate sloshing over its rim.

In mine, December obeys protocol.
A briefcase waits to accuse me by the wall.
The mouth learns argh, learns oh;
syntax breaking into small breaths,
sentences shattered by them
before they can ever mean a thing,
they coagulate into cranberry sauce.

We are Christian
the way I like to love:
intact, a (s)culpture no one may touch.
Void the s; no sexuality.

The saints behave,
good boys, good girls.
The carols shut up,
I bite their mistletoe.
Kisses have always repulsed me.

Money appears.
A crisp,
skinny brown envelope.
I read it. I ignore the green fall-out. I realize:
I write my own name better,
but who cares? I like cursive.

Currency for my love
with no afternoon to spare,
no Christmas morning to linger.
I guess I'll just scribble my name in fancy font again.

\ud835\udcfb\ud835\udcee\ud835\udcf9\ud835\udcee\ud835\udcea\ud835\udcfd.  
\ud835\ude9b\ud835\ude8e\ud835\ude99\ud835\ude8e\ud835\ude8a\ud835\ude9d.  
\ud835\udcc7\ud835\udc52\ud835\udcc5\ud835\udc52\ud835\udcb6\ud835\udcc9: my branch is on fire.

My father barely carries his body, 
a document marked post-op.
My mother argues with silence,
loses, argues again.
Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn.

I learned the abessive young:
joy-without, gift-without,
family-without-theater.
Nothing missing loudly enough 
to indict.

I learned how to stand like the Tree I wished we had,
to let the ornaments pass through me.
I am present without consequence.
I am consequence without a present.

Somewhere, the pretty paper tears.
The sound travels like a metal cry.
The princess printed on it screams.
\"R-r-rip\"...

I know they tear it.
God. I know it.
My hands stay at my sides,
they \"Rest In Protocol\".


December happens regardless.
The statute still holds.
Money completes its slow migration.
No appeal is granted.
I remain the Tree.

If this is what I inherit,
let it be named:
a life functional enough
to forestall complaint,
quiet enough
to pass for peace.

I stand and breathe.
So what if the ornament passes through me?
No one knows it does.
Not J, not M and not Me.

I am present enough,
I am presentable enough, 
I am done for this year,
the page now knows everything I cannot say.

Pretty cursive,
my favorite decoration;
fancier than any tree,
and finally,
mine.<\/pre>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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