LOVE DIES EVERY NIGHT IN MY BED

I asked someone to define love for me one day. For a moment, they stopped and their eyes wandered inside their minds for a whole minute. They said their definition of love was how someone would take care of them in times of trouble; love was how the first flower blooms in spring and the last leaf dying in autumn but the feeling was still inside you.

It was the warmth that burned in every touch, sizzling in your skin. Love was every dropping water to the ocean--it seemed worthless but each drop counts as an addition to something big. Love was the wind blowing and as refreshing as the coolness it brought.

And for every person I meet, love will be different.

But what is love for someone like me? For someone who has been vulnerable over hundreds of men? How do I define love when my dignity has been stripped out of me and the sheer clothing of what's left of my pride has been torn apart?

What is love for someone whose flower petals in spring were pulled out by rough hands only to be placed down gently when they were done? For someone who has never felt the snow dry up inside of her? How do I define love when every inch of me aches and itches and the scars that were left with every touch stayed there for a long while until another decides to add up to it?

What is love for me--when love dies every night in my bed?