I am not this strong starfish, for I have released four of my five fingers.
One remains.
When I met you I held you with three. Enough to know you and show you myself. You had most of me.
Soon you had four. We loved.
Then you pulled me closer and I had five on you. I was completely attached.
And you were scared.
And you hurt me. And I released and went down to four. And then three. And then you once again pulled me and I attached all five.
And then your divorce happened. I was pushed away.
I held on with two.
When you are alone with me, you pull me close. I give you four. But never again five.
And when you leave, back to three.
And then I detach and go to two, while I work.
And now I go to one because I'm hurt.
One is not strong.
A weak current or a passing boat could knock me off.
With one I am still connected, barely. Too much for your kids though, but enough for you.
Not enough for me.
What if I let go?
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