She is a flower, a soft beauty born from nature. She speaks eloquently, in a plush whisper. She is shy, only showing the perfect alignment of her teeth on occasion. She is the epitome of beautiful; the girl you desired.

I am thorns. I will never be a passive pastel pink flower like a Rose or a Lily. I am prickly and flawed with too much complexity. I am the part of the flower you will cut and throw away so you can get to real beauty. I am nothing anyone really wants; I’m just an obstacle to overcome.

It is cruel to whisper “I love you”s to thorns. They are resistant, because they are taught to believe that they are not worthy of love. Thorns will pluck you every now and then, but they are scared. They don’t mean to make you bleed. Thorns are flawed.

I am sorry for being a thorn. I’m sorry for all the ambivalence, the plucking, the bleeding. I’m sorry for believing you when you told me you loved me, and for all the regret I hold that wishes it could take back the trust and years I held within you.

I’m sorry I’m your thorn, when all I really wanted to be was your flower.