Reflection.

I've given up my body more times than I have been given flowers. And it's ironic because I hate my body and I love flowers. I thought if I let them in, if i let them touch the parts of me noone gets to see, maybe they'd see more than just my skin. Maybe they'd wanna stay. But they don't. They dont ask about the little things. Like how I take my coffee. Or why I flinch at sudden movements. They don't wanna know the softer parts of me. Like petals waiting to be noticed. Or a flower that needs to be watered. I lie in beds that arent mine letting these people that don't know me press their weight into me in hopes that somehow it will make me feel whole. But it never does, I just feel emptier. Like I've just given away a piece of myself that I will never get back. Noone brings me flowers. Noone stays around long enough to know that I love lily's or that I once dreamed of a love so gentle. Instead I'm touched by hands that only want my body. Not the girl who lives inside of it. Somewhere along the way I've let myself believe that this is the type of love I deserve. Fleeting, physical, and empty. I've become nothing more than a moment to them and I've convinced myself that it's enough. But God, it's not. I wanted more. I wanted to be known, to be seen in ways that didn't involve taking off my clothes. But they didn't. They didn't stay long enough to send me flowers. To love me for anything more than what I can give them. I've given up my body to people who didn't deserve it more than I would like and each time I hate it a little bit more.

I hate myself a little bit more.