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“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.

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