Happy Birthday To Me

Happy birthday to me,

I am awake

and all alone.

The day has arrived

quiet as dust

in this dark and empty home.

No husband at my side,

no voices

ringing on my phone.

Happy birthday to me—

still awake

and all alone.

No cake was waiting

on the counter today,

not even a cookie of my own.

No candle,

no little wish

with flickering light to be blown.

Happy birthday to me,

I am awake

and all alone.

No friends arrived,

no laughter

echoing through this home.

Just children fighting

room to room

like my birthday was never known.

Happy birthday to me,

still awake

and all alone.

I did not need

some grand display

or decorations brightly thrown.

Just one small hug,

a “happy birthday,”

some proof I am not alone.

Happy birthday to me,

I am awake

and all alone.

Because the girl

most easily forgotten

is used to carrying that stone.

But people rarely see

how much it hurts

to feel invisible at home.

Happy birthday to me—

still awake

and all alone.

Today has passed

without a care,

no concern was ever shown.

But at least I have

my poetry journal

to soften this quiet home.

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Birthdays have always been difficult for me. Each one feels less like a celebration and more like a reminder that time is moving forward whether I am ready or not.

I usually avoid celebrating altogether, but this year the people around me encouraged me to try. So I planned things. I let myself get excited.

And now that the day has finally arrived, my husband is away for work, my children are too busy fighting to notice, no one wants to help make a cake — or cupcakes, or even cookies — and the only family who remembered me were too far away to do anything at all.

Maybe that kind of loneliness hurts more because it begins with hope first.