Watching it crumble might have eased the hurt. Feeling it disappear only made worse. Pulling it piece by piece, slicing up ribbons could dismiss. To slowly disintegrate could have been the perfect gift. May you feel this, while you sleep, push the poisonous thorns in you. May you feel this while you wake. Bear your poisonous thorns. Walk into traffic. Running with open knives. Searching for mercy here that I'm too weak to find. To take my deepest breath I walk into the raging sea - to drown out this emptiness. It's all you have left for me. I hope you feel it. I hope that you can feel this. As it's fading the darkness shifts. This may be the perfect gift.