Bury Me In These Pajamas

Bury Me In These Pajamas long poem

Photo by dualdflipflop

Christmas eve is
A time of family and tradition
Or in my case
Unopened PJ’s, anxiety attacks, and cops
That’s all that I’ll ever think of anymore
At the mention of it I’ll be brought to tears

I was cleaning my room yesterday
And I found my unopened pajamas from Christmas eve
Ones that should’ve been tried on with the rest of the family
Slept in with the rest of the family
Woken up in to presents with the rest of the family
But instead
A month later
Here they are in my box of stuff from Christmas
Still unopened
I shove them to the bottom of the box
For I can’t look at them without my throat closing up
Looking at them is like
Feeling his fingers rip my hair from their roots
It’s like seeing the look in his eyes
Knowing that had it just been the two of us
I would’ve become the next name on the list
Of graves to dig
I see those pajamas
And I see the moment I threw them aside
To jump in the middle of a fight I knew I’d lose
But it was worth it right?
I couldn’t go five minutes without breaking down
For the first week after that
But it was worth it right?
Instead of defending me,
She told me that
Maybe had I kept my mouth shut, this wouldn’t have happened.
Did she somehow forget the last 19 years?
How it constantly happened time after time
Whether I said anything or not
But it was all worth it right?
He didn’t touch her
She defended him against me
So it was worth it

I tell my her today that I have to give the pajamas back
That I can’t look at them without my anxiety losing control
That looking at them, reminds me of that night
She sighs with disappointment
And tells me how
Those were her favorite pajamas that she’s ever gotten me
She’s not shaken by the anxiety they induce
She’s hurt that I’m returning her favorite pajamas
Let me ask you though
You buy a toy for your dog
And it’s your favorite toy you’ve ever given him
The only problem is that every time he plays with it
It hurts him
You’re not going to make him keep the toy because it’s your favorite
You’re going to get rid of it
Because you don’t want to hurt your dog
So why do you want to hurt me?
The pajamas are nice
But all I see when I look at them
Is a mother who picked my death over me

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Allie Comley

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My poems are how I survive. They are my anxiety, depression, and love life with some creative syntax thrown in
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