I was born in December —
the season of nostalgia
packaged as celebration,
where people wrap regrets in ribbons
and call them resolutions.
They say winter babies feel less cold.
Maybe.
Or maybe,
they learn early on
that frostbite is foreplay.
While others were cradled in lullabies,
I was breastfed on cold shoulders.
Weaned off expectations
and onto disclaimers.
You see, my birthday
fell on the same shelf
as Christmas sales and final deadlines —
a polite footnote
in a month too tired to care.
And they wonder why
I don’t flinch when people leave,
why my smiles expire quickly,
why silence suits me like second skin.
They say I’m cold-blooded.
But I’m just winter-born.
My warmth was a luxury
the calendar forgot to deliver.
Every December, the world remembers joy
in a language I was never taught.
Thermostats set to survival.
Hands held only
when they needed heat,
not history.
But I’m not alone, am I?
There’s a whole generation
of frost-forged children
wearing sarcasm like scarves,
burning not to stay warm —
but to remind them
what cold really was.
We’re the ones who
celebrate quietly,
love recklessly,
and vanish before
you notice we never belonged.
We don’t decorate trees.
We name them after people
who forgot we existed.
We don’t wish.
We witness.
So no, I don’t feel cold.
Not anymore.
Why feel when you can become?
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