You compare me to a flower. But the thing about flowers is that we uproot them for our own pleasures. Pull them from their own wants, their own needs. We take them from where they’re grounded, where they’re safe, where they have grown and made a life for themselves and place them in a pot on a shelf. We take them and destroy them for our own selfish desires. Call them beautiful. But that’s not love. And I’m not a flower. I will not be taken from where I am, where I want to be, to decorate the sill of your bedroom window. I will not be labeled as ‘pretty’ in the last days before my leaves shrivel, before my petals fall, before my life runs out and you find someone else to use as decoration. Love me, you say. You want to uproot me. You want to change me. But I won’t let you. Your love is just like the flower you want me to become. Something that looks pretty, for the time it lasts. Something to adorn your life, to make it beautiful. But kills me in the process. And I won't be destroyed.
— Marisa Donnelly
seafoam*
passedaway
Raxin
musicure
Anujsomany
Y0UNGL0V3MURD3R
Amenah
Miluiel*