I lie awake at night, and it is four-nineteen in the morning.
I fear i may never be loved in the same ways i long and yearn for other people.
I want to know what it feels like. To be loved; inside and out. To be loved for my mind and its thoughts. To be loved for the way i speak, and how words flow from my mouth like a river. To be loved for my face, and appreciated like the moon has its craters. To be loved; not just for my body, but for myself. She wants to be loved. The real me, like she loves you. she longs for someone to fall in love with her.
i had witness flowers grow and die beside each other. I wanted to grow old, too. together, with someone of my own. i cling to hope like it's the last thing i have, as if i am not an unlovable being. that one day, someone will look my way. I used to be told i was beautiful. Pretty, even. I don't know what happened. I had these expectations, to be this blossoming, beautiful, thing, as i was growing. I feel wilted. The flower that nobody will choose, because it isn't beautiful anymore.
The blooming flowers reassure me that one day, i will be picked and cherished. "but by who?" i ask. But then they are plucked before they even have the chance to tell me so. I am not as pretty as they are.
The world keeps spinning; and time keeps moving. And i can't help but wonder, "where is this person who is going to choose me?"
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