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Muted Gift Box
You wear a tamed, gentle face,
Easy to trust, easy to please;
A shapeshifter in tender disguise,
Becoming exactly what I need.
You move close like a shooting star,
Calculated, yet hard to predict;
And every wish I almost make
Burns out, melting without a trace.
You hand me words like flaming cards,
Warm at first, then edged with harm;
I hold them tight, thinking they are light,
Not knowing they were meant to scar.
And somewhere in a muted gift box,
You keep the versions of me you’ve torn;
Dented, folded into distorted forms,
The ones you peacefully outworn.
You never scream nor raise your voice,
Never make the bitterness loud;
But pleasantry, carefully wrapped,
Cuts much deeper when it’s proud.
