Santa, when you pass through my place,
See that I am still whole, don’t be in haste.
You might find a withered soul,
needing some mending, a hand to hold.

See my distress, watch for my outbursts,
lend a patient ear when my story unfurls.
Recognize my signs, for I seldom disclose
my broken self—seeking no remorse.

Santa, stop here, let me reveal
The gifts I cherish, beyond mere need.
The time to breathe, free from guilt’s hold,
And a little respect, not scolded cold.

Grant me rest, and peaceful sleep.
The mornings are hard, respite I seek.
Don’t crush me with deadlines when I’m dead inside
I falter at tasks when overwhelmed by the tide.

A little sunshine, a sweet little treat
Tell me it’s fine, the gentleness I seek.
To grow and to tower, with support unbridged,
And with each fall, you help me and lead.

.    .    .