next year

next year,
when the holly and the ivy
have disappeared into the ground.
and we've plucked
all the mistletoe berries
and run out of kisses...
i will be better.
taking the tonic
that releases me from it.
insanity
of caring too much.
and the inability
to love any man's touch.
i'll do a quick christianity,
and learn forgiveness
to injure any priest's
self-righteous vanity.
i won't flinch at long red hair
and an insolent stare.
that half a stone
(from being alone)
will disappear.
and the weight of it all.
when i am so small.
he'll be lying if he repeats;
"you don't live in reality."
i'll grow up
and reclaim my sanity.