Do you love me? Or do you not?  My stem was ready for your touch,  my delicate roots placed firmly in the clay.  I begged you to notice me,  to pick me and to pluck me in this sea of vibrant flowers.  But, I was never beautiful enough to be part of your bouquet.  I wondered and then pondered: Does he love me? Does he love me not?  And I plucked and plucked and plucked my petals,  Until there was nothing left of me.  Now I'm here all alone in a field full of thriving others,  Wilting. Withering. Wasting away.