The Gift

She was gift-wrapped just for you
in the prettiest paper she could find,
and tied with a ribbon to match
the shade of her eyes.
Her small box was taped
securely shut.  Inside
she was laid in a bed on soft, white tissue
because she was fragile, and might break.

One of many packages
under your tree she waited
for you on Christmas morning.

When you opened her
you cast aside the green ribbon,
and admired the paper, careful
not to rip it.  With scissors
you sliced the box’s tape and
said the tissue bed was nice.
You pulled her out, then with your
scissors casually snipped out
her heart, dropped it, and crushed it.

Last Updated on October 16, 2024 by Anne