A part of me no longer dreams of flowers perhaps because I’ve wished for them in silence too many times. I’ve undressed not just my body, but my soul, baring myself in dim-lit rooms, hoping morning would bring petals and love. I laid myself beside promises that never came, traded softness for warmth, and silence for touch— but dawn never brought roses, only the ache of being unseen. It's almost ironic, isn't it? That I’ve offered my body more times than I’ve ever received a single bloom. I was hoping to be loved, but became a stop for passing desire, a home for hands but not for hearts. And maybe it’s true, maybe I was made to be wanted, not to be cherished. Because the ones who’ve explored every inch of me, never stopped to ask the name of my favorite flower. I mistook fleeting fire for tenderness, and called lust "love" just to feel a little less empty. But in the end, I was only ever touched, never really held. -lai