Thorn

I whisper words so you can amplify them to a
Waiting audience, which coos over your
Perfect verbal prose. They ooh and ah and throw
Roses that you promise will prick
Blood from my veins if I dare caress
One beautiful bloom. You are the rose; I am but a
Thorn. Why, then, is it I who supplies your
Luscious petals with life-giving nutrients?
Why should I stay encased in a
Pointed protrusion, when it is I you
Draw your strength from? No one can pry their
Eyes from the sultry layers of your skirt,
Shimmering with tiny dewdrops.
It may seem like your blood-red petals hide a heart of
Gold, but I know someday I will find the
Strength to climb up your stem to your blossom and
Scream the truth: I am not just a thorn.