Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

People change outward expressions of themselves, but rarely the core. Which part do you love? What happens when what you’re used to starts to burn away, leaving just the truth? Even more telling is this: what happens when the part being shed is the part that made you feel loved?

I am in transition, and my color has faded.

A part of my pathos in life has always been to make myself “indisposable”. If I make you feel like you cannot live without me, then you will not leave me. I am too valuable, too necessary. Even when you have tired of me, the niggling feeling of “what if” lingers: what if I need her and she is not there? What if no one else can do it the way she does? What if they don’t even know how to even start?

I imagine that most of my relationships would have failed a lot sooner (or lasted a lot longer) had they been founded on who I actually am rather than who I showed myself to be. Mind you, my blooms have been benign enough: accomodating, agreeable, supportive. Willing to go where no sane person would ever go. Flying head first into stupidity and danger and failure. You know, a regular fool for love.

But now, my summer is ending. The lusciousness of my bloom is dulling around the edges to flat iron of oxygen hitting blood. I have taken a breath, come in contact with moments in life that have changed me. How you pruned me too much, set limits on me based on what you needed. Or how you rarely watered me–setting me out in the sun for days on end, no hugs, no kisses, no “I loves you’s”. Or how I have never experienced the certainty of being your first priority, forever waiting for the care reserved for the most important flowers in your garden.

Yet even as the deepest shades of my expression fade into memory, I flourish. Having had to lean on  nothing for so long, my roots grew   deeper, digging down and out until the veins anchored me forever into this spot. It would be impossible to exhume me from this space without tearing me apart in some way, leaving some essential piece of who I am behind and cut off. And at this juncture  of my life, I simply refuse to be uprooted without a fight.

Autumn is approaching, and I wonder: will you still love me when these leaves shrink, when these still vibrant petals finally fall completely away? Will you love the stems and roots that I have left? Or will you continue to mourn the slowly dying pretty parts that you never appreciated when I was in full bloom?

I am in transition. Will you love who I am now?


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