I once believed Christmas was your promise. You traveled the world, scattering joy, like in cartoon films, like the vows whispered in bedtime stories, with a marvelous train and bells ringing loud into the night. You were a dream, a childhood memory. You were the sparkle that splashed and lingered on innocent, untainted souls— on who I was, when I was still pure. But even glitter has an expiration. I grew older and learned how to sin. I no longer wait for your gifts, so there is no need to sneak by the hissing fireplace in a silent room. Life taught me its bitterness: do not expect too much. Nothing in this world is free. I grew—slowly, heavily, aging since then. Unlike you, I am lonely, never awaited, never anticipated. Dear Santa, even if you are a celebrated collective illusion, I, too, wish to be hope. Yet my heart is brushed by emptiness— no gift is capable of freezing this numbness in place. I am lonely and made lonelier, discarded, unneeded. Ah, a fabricated present. #santa