Holiday's In My HomeMature

To the people I miss during this holiday season, to the unspoken story that goes on within the individuals who are missing someone during a time when everybody else is smiling.
Happy Holidays.

A little girl tip-toes down the stairs, her slippers softly rustling against the carpet.
Lights on in the kitchen, she carefully peeks her head around the corner.
There stands her Mother, bags under her eyes.
Wrapping presents silently and alone
The scene makes the girl want to cry, but she doesn't know why.

Sitting on her Daddy's lap, she smiles and giggles.
Surrounded by those she loves the most.
Her parent's exchange gifts, but they don't gaze into each other's eyes.
Thinking nothing of it, it's the only thing she has ever known.
"Happy Birthday Jesus." she whispers innocently to the snowy sky.

Hold it together, bring it together.
Just for the holiday season.
The snow is softly falling, its deathly quiet outside.
I'll gather my thoughts for a second, tears filling my eyes.
I just want to let you know, I miss you.

The little girl isn't so little anymore. 
The tree is up, the fire is warm.
Tension as thick as a knife, she escapes outside for a minute.
Hugging herself she lays down on the ground.
It's beginning to snow as she hears the fighting beginning to start.

Wrapping presents with her Mom, she smiles to her.
Trying to avoid what happened earlier, what happened when she escaped.
Brushing her hair from her eyes, it's twelve o'clock.
Escaping outside for but a moment, the ground is completely white.
"Happy Birthday Jesus." she whispers timidly to the ground, unwilling to lift her eyes.

Hold it together, bring it together.
Just for the holiday season.
The snow is softly falling, its deathly quiet outside.
I'll gather my thoughts for a second, tears filling my eyes.
I just want you to know, I miss you.

Everything appears fine, everything appears wonderful.
Grandparent's visit, the entire family appears in sync.
But as soon as they leave, the tension returns.
The fighting returns, along with the fits of rage.
"C'mon, I'm leaving come with me." 

The girl, far too mature for her age, follows behind her Father to the car.
The Father she used to adore, the Father she now is growing to detest.
Begins to rant to her, but all she does is look out her window.
No snow comes from the pitch black sky, she wishes for the first time the roads were icy.
"Jesus, is this what Christmas is about?" she thinks as a tear slowly slides down her cheek.

The End

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