I’ve showed and given up my body more times than I’ve been given flowers, and it’s ironic because I hate my body, but I love flowers. I thought that if I let them in, if I let them touch the parts of me no one else gets to see, maybe they’d see more than just my skin—maybe they’d want to stay. But they don’t ask about the little things, like how I take my coffee or why I flinch at sudden movements. They don’t want to know the softer parts of me, like petals waiting to be noticed, like flowers begging to be watered.

I lie in beds that aren’t mine, hoping somehow it will make me feel whole. Letting strangers press their weight into me feels like giving away another piece of myself I’ll never get back—but it never does. I just feel emptier. No one brings me flowers. They don’t stay long enough to know I love lilies or that I once dreamt of a love so gentle. Instead, I’m touched by hands that only want my body, not the girl who lives inside it.

And I let them, because somewhere along the way, I started believing this is the only kind 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.

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 never stay long enough to know me, to give me flowers, to love me for anything more than what I can give them. I’ve given up my body more times than I can count, and each time I do, I hate it a little more. I hate me a little more.

Save Me an Orange by Hayley Grace