Faking Under the Mistletoe

by Ashley Shepherd

People look happy in a way they don’t when they’re shoving me out of their way at the Macy’s in Herald Square.

Something to traumatize me—and probably a platform full of people—into realizing that these are outrageous and irrational thoughts to be having over the actions of a man.

That’s what death does to you—it eats you alive until you’re a hollow shell of a human who lives in a limbo of grief and guilt and denial.

“You have this habit of inserting yourself into someone’s life and leaving a lasting impression,”

I’m the human embodiment of someone hitting play on every single Taylor Swift song at once.

I have to bite my tongue to avoid making a noise that definitely isn’t meant for Jesus’ birthday.