Pluck Me...

I constantly fight with myself over whether I am overreacting, or not. I have always been known to be a bit dramatic. I make things up, overexaggerate, and sometimes, I lie for fun. So I am not the most trustworthy person--not for others, or myself.

No woman wants to nag. Sometimes, I'd like to enjoy a bit of silence, but even when the world doesn't say a thing, there goes my shrilling voice, whining for something. And what is that something usually? Attention. Effort. Affection. 

No, I am not overreacting. Take a child from an orphanage and expecting them to see you as anything less than a parent is evil. Disgusting. Torturous. Thus I prose in an overspoke jeremiad--pursue a woman, win a woman, why must you seal the very effort that captured her, to keep her? I never asked for any of this. This love that I write and cry about. I am a woman. A woman who was fine on her own--locked into routine--before sunrise she rose, just after sunset she always retired... But for the sake of love--she stayed awake and she overslept. She procrastinated and pushed off things she really liked--because she liked him a lot, too. She loved him. And when you love someone, you make time for them.

And that must be how she slipped into psychosis. Because familiarial sacrifice was never asked of her. She did it out of love. But if we speak of things unsought--what was never asked for--what was just probed and given... she never rose from her slumber and whispered to herself, "I want a man, and I want to be in love". No. She didn't and never would have--because she was fine alone. She was grateful for her lonesome existence. She basked in that serenity. She was most beautiful alone--the most delicate and soft, flawless. She was happiest alone. He found her--the thriving buttercup--in the garden. He plucked her, put her in a vase and said "Bloom!", to which she did with fervor... but only after he made sure to keep her trimmed and watered. He worked for that blossom. Because he was the one who wanted it in the first place.

For him, she gave her all. Grew bigger than she thought a flower ever could. But she never asked to be plucked in the first place. Had she known she'd be left on the mantle to wither until she stunk, she wouldn't have yielded her thorns so easily. 

And even after all this, after it was clear he had run out of love to give--because though it didn't last long, she knew he loved her at some point--she still tried. She still fought to make something out of nothing. Because she loved him so much. He made her love him.  She loved him so much that she had become ugly--inside and out. A stranger to her routine, eyes swollen and heavy, eating more when he made her feel lonely, refusing to move when her body felt abandoned; she was always whining, always nagging, begging him to show her he loved her just a bit. She always made sure she told him, she only wanted a little bit of him. As to not seem selfish, or clingy, or needy. Three things she became, anyway.

Certainly her heartbroken nature was what had made her so unattractive to him afterwhile--but then again, had he showed he cared in the first place, she'd still be so beautifully sweet. He broke her kind spirit when he broke her heart, and she hated that much more than she hated him for unloving her. She wouldn't mind being broken if it didn't seep into every part of here. She had become bitter. It was spewing out of her--word vomit and physical anguish. She could handle being kintsugi. But she had lost her spark--no longer a star--and just ugly.

At the wake of his abandonment, she found herself scrounging for her long lost beauty. Maybe if she was beautiful again, the love would return. After all, the ugly flowers are always confined to the garden--never plucked, left behind. They never get that luxurious life--weddings, birthdays, all of the love. They don't even deserve to sit among death... They just stay behind until they die, and then in their place, another--hopefully more beautiful--will grow again. It's cyclinal. The nature of life. 

But she had made a home outside of the garden. She was beautiful enough to be picked, but not enough to be kept. It was shameful, but could be obtained again, she hoped.