Each morning arrives wrapped in mystery,
folded corners, an untied ribbon,
and you, with trembling hands, decide—
how much weight to let it carry.
Will you unseal its edges gently,
or tear through its skin in haste,
too eager to name it before it breathes,
before it bares its teeth?
The day does not ask your permission
to contain miracles or unravel seams.
It is just there, a tight-lipped box,
neither apology nor promise in its bones.
Some days, it holds light soft enough
for your fingers to touch and feel alive.
Other days, it presses heavy shadows
against your ribs, daring you to breathe.
But listen, no matter what waits inside,
you’re the one who molds its shape.
A gift. A coffin. A whisper. A roar.
Every box is at war with itself.