His christmas tree was bright

draped in warm, yellow tinted, sing songy lights
a thousand ornaments of porcelain reindeers and dusty childhood photos
of mom and dad picking him up onto their shoulders to put the star on top
all in a circle singing carols and baking cookies
neighbors looking in to see lavender candles and homemade happiness
he held my hand, sat me on the sofa, and they made me theirs

My tree is bare
it’s a small collection of dead branches
held together by a dusty old piece of scotch tape I found in the basement
not in a sweet and nostalgic way
as if it had been left there
absorbing years of love and grandfathering away into the floor boards
but in a way that weeped that it had never been used
rotting in it’s own shallow grave of wooden splinters
forgotten about years ago
never once being warmed by the fire of togetherness

His apartment was always warm and whole
despite its smallness
it somehow managed to perfectly fit everything it needed into its three rooms
leaving enough room for comfort
and enough clutter for memories
his christmas tree practically absorbing the entire living room
his dog dashing around
large paws clumsily bumping through the chairs like a pinball machine
leaving kind puddles of drool behind him
jigsaw puzzle pieces spread across the floor
a splendor of coasters supporting mom’s hot cocoa
sitting around the table and saying a prayer

When I first joined his home
I realized that mine wasn’t one at all

Because my christmas tree lives in a large barren house
which has been my address since I was eight
yet in five minutes could be packed away and shipped into a small box
endless empty corners of fake flowers and unused furniture
leaving enough room to never know when people are home
but thin enough walls to always hear the fights behind them
insults built and snowballed into my face
freezing my cheeks and chipping away at my lips
tasting away at the bitter salt
because raising should involve preparing
that way the hate of the real world will not serve as a shock
lies and manipulation which stain the walls through generations
eventually known to be true
telling me that I’m ugly, untalented, and useless
urging me to move out or runaway
but reminding me that i’m too young and don’t have that option
telling me that exclaiming my truth is verbal abuse
and freedom of speech is a myth
locking my windows and installing alarms
to keep me away from his christmas tree