⋅˚.⋆☾ℛℴ𝓇𝓎.⋆☽𓃠

Oh Lord, I hate this feeling in my heart, as if it's going to explode.

Oh Lord, I crave for my mother to hold me, to care for me, to love me completely.

For me.

I wanted to die.

I couldn't. I'm still here.

Somehow,

through all the noise in my head,

through every restless night

and every aching morning,

I'm still here.

I look at the lily I got.

It brings me hope.

A quiet kind of hope,

soft and stubborn,

resting in fragile petals.

Hope.

Hope. Hope.

The word echoes through me

until I no longer know

whether it is a promise

or a curse.

Because hope asks me to stay

when I am tired.

It asks me to wait

when I want answers now.

The lily stands there,

silent and blooming,

unaware of the weight it carries.

And I keep looking at it,

wondering if healing begins

like this:

not with certainty,

not with joy,

but with a single flower

and a reason,

however small,

to see tomorrow.

Hope.

My biggest enemy.