“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that, this too, was a gift.”
— Mary OIiver, Poet from her book, Thirst
To unwrap it I had to spill my blood.
To open it I gave bone and flesh and tendon.
To keep it, bits of soul and heart.
Was it worth all those?
Does that matter? I could not return the gift nor retrieve the pieces of me I gave away.