i was going to write this in an email, but as the characters imploded on the page, i realised i wasn't as much writing this for you as for me.

so it's christmas time. i love christmas, not because of the presents, but for what it means to me. the best christmas present i've ever had was when i was 9. my grandma was in a coma, dying from sclerosis of the liver, and on christmas day she came around. now there's nothing quite like being in a hospital on christmas day. it seems so sterile, even the tinsel lacks cheer, as if the hollowness and soullessnes of the ward has imprinted itself on the décor.

i remember sitting in a sterile plastic chair next to my granma's bed, holding her hand, and eveywhere there were wires, so so so many wires. as with any dying person she was hooked up to so much equipment that it almost seemed like an artificial organism had attacked her. there was the machine that breathed for her, the machine that did the beeping when her heart beat, the machine that kept her free from pain, the one that let her pee, and so on. i tried not to look at the machines though, because as young as i was, i knew she was leaving us. i've always had an uncanny ability to feel the touch of death before it strikes.

i was looking for it when she opened her eyes, and i was the first to get the nurse, though mum was fast behind. i remember them giving her water, her throat was dry as she'd been taking liquids through a tube too. she was fading fast, her pulse was erratic (as evidenced by beeping machine), and her eyes had a glazed look, but one which screamed serenity (if serentity is something which can be screamed without proving oxymoronic, but i digress). i knew something was really wrong with my grandma because the doctors were hovering now, and even at that age i knew the men in white coats were an ill fated omen.

when she spoke it was a whisper at first, barely more than a breath, but i can still hear it this day. i remember it because she, at the time, sounded like a mad woman with her cracked and raspy sounding voice.

"i love you. never be afraid to love, or to lose. and write, always write. i love you"

and moment later, after only this one sentence, as suddenly as she came around, she went away. and this time for forever.

it was the first time i ever saw someone die, and because i saw it, i have never been afraid of natural death. it seemed so placid, so meant-to-be, almost like the final step of a race where you walk over the finish line. but beyond death, her words stayed with me, long after the tears of her parting. and at 24 years old, i've tried to always embody them as best as i can.

its funny how my favourite chistmas is the one where my grandma died. but i value those words more than any gift, any gold, any silver, any bit of tacky overinflated-priced shit. the real chistmas gifts, the ones that actually matter, cannot be bought.

today reminds me of that day.

it feels like a death. but a beginning. a lesson. i take something away from it.

i love you jesse, with everything, and i guess all i wanted was for you for christmas this year. but if i can't have you as my boyfriend, i don't want the tacky replacement for that. we're worth more than that. and i'd rather remember what we had in sadness, than cling onto something that makes me happy but feels like i'm being untrue to myself.

i was going to say to you, all or nothing, but when you started walking away before i even asked the question i   guess i felt like i was worth more than to ask that.

i'm sad, and lost, and heartbroken in a way, because i know this really is the end. there is nowhere for this to go. and i dont know where all the love goes when two people decide to not love each other anymore. but the fact i can walk away from this in the first place suggests that maybe i didn't love you as much as i thought.

i know you will make me proud, and i will love you always.
im tired of wiping up my tears.
all i wanted for christmas was you.
now i don't want anything.
and they say true happiness comes from wanting nothing. so maybe some good will come.