Cancer for Christmas

I need to say this, just to get it out of my head. I’ve been crying for days and I thought it was because I was afraid to be alone, but now I think I was wrong. This is always the worst time of the year for me. I feel sick and sad and like no one in the world understands or even wants to. Everyone is caught up in zeal and greed and I’m here, hurting from my financial ineptitude and solitude, aching from my loneliness when all my friends are enjoying their families. Here I am. I’m afraid to be alone because then I have to think about things, and I don’t want to. I haven’t been alone in three days, but now I am and your sickness it finally setting in.

I was wrong when I thought I was crying over solitude. I haven’t been alone in three days. I’m not a recluse. Not that I want to be alone. I want to be surrounded; I want to be touched. I never want to be alone. I wish I were back with my hoodlum, the one who never left me alone, the one I rejected, the one who wasn’t afraid to lay his head in my lap and gaze into my eyes before falling asleep in the middle of the day. I’m ranting, my thoughts are wandering, this isn’t what I want to say. I’m sad about you.

You, who dressed as Santa Claus. You, who winked at me when I angrily proclaimed that there was no Santa. You, whose beard I pulled, whose lap I sat on for years. You. You’ve been a part of my life since I was a child. You brought joy to all the children for Christmas and now you’re going to die by Christmas.

Cancer. Cancer for Christmas, that’s what you get for all your goodness, all your care, all your compassion, your dedication. Cancer for Christmas and it’s going to kill you.

I guess I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to lose you. I’m hanging on to everyone because I don’t want to lose them like I know I’ll lose you. You’re a lost cause. You’re going to die. Cancer for Christmas, just as vile as the greedy, pathetic holiday itself. Cells perverted, refusing to serve their purpose, killing you rather than giving you life, just like Christmas has been perverted and no longer serves its purpose. Christmas has infected you, or cancer has, and you’re going to die. Santa’s death is coming just in time for the holidays. You won’t wear the suit, I won’t sit on your lap. You won’t be strong enough to get out of bed, I won’t be strong enough to visit your bedside. I won’t tell you you’re not real. You’re too real. And now you’ll be gone.

And I’m rambling again because I want to hold on to everything but you have cancer and you’re going to die and I can’t stop that and I hate Christmas and I’m just sorry I’m such a downer in a time when everyone else is so happy. Your family and I, we can mourn. Let everyone else be merry. Cancer for Christmas and you’re going to die.