for my birthday, December 29th

 

My name is Joy—four days past Christmas born,
Too late for hymns, too soon for grace of morn.
I brought no warmth, no candle to the cold,
No miracle of the season had been foretold.

The heart I house is clouded, thick with night,
A grief that dulls all color, sound, and light.
Depression sits where healing should have grown,
A rot unnamed, untreated, overthrown.

Take care with names—those wishes etched in skin,
Those crowns of promise pressed on infants’ sin.
Had I been Lynn, or Sue, some neutral sound,
No debt of cheer would track me all around.

Who knows what truths my mouth might dare release,
What darker thoughts might surface without peace?
What I might be if not required to glow,
To counterfeit a joy I’ll never know.

I never loved my name, yet it is clean—
Not half a prayer, not prophecy unseen.
Not Hope, half-promised, dangling in the air,
Nor Destiny, too bold to be unfair.

Nor weighted like the names that openly
Confess their grief—Mara, Lament, plea.
Mine lies instead: a lie I’m forced to wear,
A brightness rotting quietly in prayer.