Sweet, Frozen Erasure

Winter-time is always a frenetic time of year,

the cold fingertips and even colder hearts. 

Family trying to pry their way into the arcane parts of your mind with "loving words", 

failing horrendously.

The brevity of the 'Can-You-Not-Use-Those-Pronouns-With-Me-Please' speeches, wonderfully ignored each and every time;

the Christmas tree gleefully mocking you as it's able to change its identity each year without question.


Of course, the snuggles around the fireplace and Mariah Carey playing wistfully in the background, a moment of which could last a lifetime, gives you some form of comfort, 

but the plethora of super-mega anti-LGBT 

over the turkey and the cranberry sauce could

easily cure you of your empty stomach in almost an instant; your desperate explanation of how you're “Not-A-Girl" only exacerbating their uneducated opinion.

"You should talk more."

"Tell us about yourself!"

"You're so quiet..."

Yes, I should learn to be salubrious and to project my voice, however at each and every mouthful of stuffing and at each and every fall of a snowflake, you refuse to accept my “lifestyle” and consider it a passing moment of time.

“She'll get over it.”

Oh no, but she won't. Of whom you call “she", my loving yet careless grandmother, is not I, so maybe she will “get over it”, but I sure as hell won't.

Maybe you'll adapt to this, you continue to exclaim to yourself. You'll perambulate after the fairy lights are switched on, and think to yourself how much you love the snow. Even you, yourself, ignore the fact that 'coming out' isn't even an option let alone a decision to be made.

Maybe you'll just pretend to be as straight as the frozen brick wall you sit on, and wait until next Christmas.