by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Surrounded by stems and fallen petals, I found myself pulling even more from the bunch in my hand. One at a time. Carefully, singularly, methodically, purposefully. “He loves me.” Drop. “He loves me not.” Toss.
“He loves me.” It wasn’t a childish desire to be loved. It was a statement about my lack; my unloveliness. If I pulled enough petals, still I knew I could not find the one that would magically bring me back to the place where I felt worthy, secure, treasured. Yet I continued to pluck, falling more and more into despair.… read the rest. . .