Christmas Poem

The holidays are hard for me still;
I bake and I eat and I 
sing, but
the holidays are still hard.

There are people who care for me
now, I am small but
not as scrawny.
I am allowed to take up space.

There are friends who love me
I feel lonely in romance,
but I am loved.
There are people who care for me.

I remember not to hate myself—
it is so hard to let me feel loved.
I have had loneliness
take home in my bones
for too many years.
It is hard to let the love burrow.

I have to let the love pierce through
my skin, into the
burrows of my bones.

The holidays are still so,
so hard.
The Christmas tree is full
of other people's ornaments.
Mine live in another home.