is it really christmas with the hallucinations of screaming, of shouting and anger and immense hatred between two persons? is it really christmas with the absence of people in reality, and to ease the lonely soul one thinks and ponders and dreams of human interaction—although they are an introvert?

is it really christmas when the presents are ripped open, when turkey is carved and drinks poured? is it really christmas when people sweat and stress and wheeze over serving, over giving others a content and happy christmas?

is it really christmas when she was all alone, a bottle of wine—the colour of dipping blood—nestled in her hand, lipstick smeared and mascara staining her face?

is it really christmas when she felt so pathetic—so low and pitiful and dead?

rebuilding?

getting over him?

hah. she couldn't even except the fact that he was no longer here.

- r.

without him, she was all alone; twenty-fifth december, 18

happy 2019 !! ironic since i wrote it on christmas skjsjsjsj