She was a natural born rose
Her bosom swole with the kind of love
that truly was a rare find.
Men…and women…who knew her
tasted of her nectar with hesitation,
afraid they would be bruised by her thorns.
Long before they worried about being hurt
they worried they would hurt her by
adding to the thorns she was already dressed in.
So many had picked her, yet didn’t choose
her, becoming the thorns she’s carried all her life.
Thorns adorn her back and spine
so anyone who touches her will know
the pain she’s known. Only a few
knew how to pick her without getting bruised.
Even fewer would risk the dab of blood
from touching one of her thorns.
Then there were those who were attracted to
her thorns, choosing to ignore her petals.
So, when the thorns started to disappear–
they did this at least once every year
when she learned not to equate love with pain–
they would inevitably run away.
She never equated the presence of her thorns
with love. Choosing instead to see it as a lack.
Still there were times when she’d run her hand
along the line of her scars, forgetting they were
nothing more than thorns. But one day another rose
told her, “Be careful of people who hug your thorns
too hard and try to convince you the thorns
are the best part of the rose. For them, love must hurt–
Always. So eventually, they will add to your thorns
and begin to pluck your leaves and petals, one by one,
and tell you it’s all done in love.
Peace & Love,