They gave me gifts, but said they came from someone else.
You gave me a gift, that others told me about.

They told me stories about these gifts.
Stories a child could believe.

One day, I no longer believed the stories.
But the gifts kept coming and I pretended to believe.

I wanted to believe, belief brought comfort;
keeping me warm inside, when the world was cold.

Now I knew too much; I had learned how to survive on my own.
I was shivering; but I couldn’t go back.

Yet the gifts kept coming;
whether I believed or not.

Then one day, I didn’t open a gift.
It opened me.

It opened up a heart that had grown cold.
And now the stories don’t matter; the gift of love is real.

– Michael Lindsay