In the spring of my life … as the tiny bud sprung into a little flower; the magic of its essence coming to life … you plucked me. Away from my roots, from the water I needed to flourish.

In its place you gave this little bud what you had … a dry, arid land. You wanted to show off what you finally got. A flower of your own.

Since it was yours, all yours, it had to look just the way you wanted. You picked at its petals, ruffled its stigma … demanded it to soothe you—with its fragrance, but not too overpowering. With its colours, but not too gaudy.

And what of its essence, full of magic and love?

You never saw it. You never allowed it to be.

How could you, when you never knew yours?

Somehow, you poor soul, your essence was drained from you, and you lost your power. Your true power.

In place of that, you sought control with your cold, stiff grip, seeking the respite you desperately needed.

I gave you what magic I had.

Hoping to spark some love in you.

Not just love for me, but love for yourself, too.

That you may see you were always loved.

Whenever the magic settled on you, however, it turned into dust.

Mere dust. And each time, I wilted a little.

Bit by bit, I pulled up each root, encrusted by the parched earth.

Wandering and stumbling along, seeking a way to save my spirit.

Looking for a home.

I couldn’t save yours … I’m sorry …

But maybe … just maybe, I can save mine.