Gift Wrapping & Bows

Your rejection is one of the most beautiful

double edge sword gifts you’ve ever given me.

The cut contact, cut ties, cut pictures,

is the sharpest cut I’ve ever seen on a gift bow.

 

Your indifference wrapping paper is the perfect compliment

to the glassy ice cold sellotape,

carelessly and economically placed on the sides.

The emptiness within the box is packed so neatly,

How did you manage to get it all in?

 

And the reverberating silence that bounces back

when the dialling tone comes to a

stop

 

after unravelling the layers of decoration

and the death cold room temperature

that reminds me of my own source of heat and energy

 

How did you manage to get all of that into the emptiness?

 

The jagged velvet skirting of the blank card,

and air bubbles trapped beneath the wrapping,

bulging with the pressure,

I can see you’ve already squished them down

 

I imagine a thousand different messages you could have written on that card

I imagine the invisible ink bleeding into its thickness

but you were right to leave it blank,

all the right words could never have fitted onto this little card

 

Your gift is not desirable, it’s necessary

And those are the best kind of gifts to receive.

 

I didn’t want this nakedness

that has forced me to feel so lonely

that I had to remember what it was like to build myself up,

to remember what it was like to be alone before you came

but there was something therapeutic in stripping all the layers of wrapping paper away,

its bareness almost heals,

It forces me, reminds me, that I do not need you to be whole,

that I was whole before you came.

 

I used to be naïve,

Your last gift was packaged in a much smaller box

bearing a glimme-ring rock

with a much bigger card,  ‘ti amo per sempre‘ 

Now I know that there is no promise,

no obligation that external love should become a permanent tenant in my household

Back then I had met you, only as far as you had met yourself 

 

This is not a love poem for you,

do not think for one second it is,

It is a love poem for myself,

for the tears I shed for myself,

for the part of me that I’m mourning,

the part that I lost when I lost you,

tears of joy I cry for the rebirth,

the rediscovery of self

that became so clouded, so engulfed, in my search for the gifts I wanted

but were not needed.

 

Today, I’ve met myself again,

So thank you,

for allowing me to give the most beautiful,

and necessary gift I could give myself. 

 

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