Dented

Oh, but don’t you see? I don’t really care for what you’ve given me. I don’t care for it at all. The tick never stops. The drip never drops. I’m here with too much..far too much to carry. This is my burden? To be extraordinary yet mundane. I’m saddled with one as a result of the other??

Can’t you split them? Don’t I have a choice? Is there any rhyme or reason? The gray makes the rules. I know, somehow, I’m still sane. Yet here I am, day to day. Trying to handle my mundane. Handle it with grace; handle it with skill. Handle it with a poise? Oh, I never will.

There is no choice for split. I’ve been given this gift; but I can re-wrap it. Make it easier to carry. Bear the weight of her; saddle it and make it less scary. Take control of my cards. Be the one to finally make choices, to the furthest possible extent.

There’s no rule book. There is no exchange. There is no receipt, for this gift that no one desires. But we take it, smile, and do our best. This gift isn’t great, she’s not shiny, she isn’t terribly useful. But we are who we are, despite her. We can be shiny and exuberant, even with a blemish, a spot, a dent we didn’t intend.