“She loves me, she loves me not.”

You’d be better off pulling away each petal of every flower in all fields of the world than waiting for me to decide. My thoughts are inconsistent with my heart, my heart with my soul. What is a girl to do? It’s quite easy to lie; attach a smile to any meaningless word that comes out of my mouth and I’ve got you in the palm of my hand. I’ll eat you up and tease you so.

What is love? I long to find out, but with all these inconsistencies how will I ever know? When a man tells me he loves me, I don’t want to appear speechless (in awe at how vulnerable a man can be and how quickly he thinks he means these words) so I say it back to him with a smile he so easily believes.

This world has become so impersonal that everyone is looking for love and companionship, hoping it will come easy to them in a society that works them to the bone. No man will ever work me to the bone, fearing that the last petal will contain the fourth, dreadful word. If only they knew that I keep adding petals to our flower, the end is nowhere near. Though I am not loving, I am observing. If I can’t feel the passion expected of me, I’ll at least see how it makes even a brave man act.

Yet the more I see, the more I get turned off of love and the likes of it. I believe that what was once an effortless thing has turned into a tiring matter; it is almost tiring just to watch. I’ve exhausted myself before I even started the game, so honestly, why even try?

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