As pathetically desperate as it is, I want to be loved—truly and genuinely and patiently loved, just as I would and have another person. Every single person who has ever claimed to love me or to be in love with me has withdrawn it. The first one I thought was real, but it was fictitious and a folly of the imagination. The second person said it and withdrew it three times and said they thought they meant it at the time. The third was plainly a liar. The fourth and fifth were parents. The sixth said they never were, but they could have been, as if that compensates for the lack thereof. It’s like a theme in a book, an annual tradition: the choice never chosen, the road never taken. Lost hope is a hand-me-down year after year and I never seem to grow out of it. Everything about me has grown cold and desensitized to ache, to a point where I can’t even call myself sad. I’m angry and I’m bitter. I’m a choice never chosen and road never taken. Tell me: when a rose is not plucked, does it fall and wither, or does it simply grow more thorns?
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