I Am Your Thorn

A confession from the sharp edge of hollow grave.

Who plucked the roses,
left no trace,
and nothing left
for thought to chase?

I am the thorn
that fought the sound,
and now no one
to wrap around.

Don’t you want to shift,
to move?
What part of life
feels true to you?

Look at the morals
they display…
they love the rose,
not me,
not my way.

Whoever walks
beneath the bloom,
petals free
from any gloom…
the thorn still carries
all the weight,
the light you shine,
so rare and great.

I don’t wish
to pierce your skin,
never meant
to steal your win.

But every night,
an ache takes seed,
why can’t they see
my lonely need?

Don’t you feel
that same dull ache?
Why every inch
of ground you take,
dust drowns my will,
my stake,
my trust?

I am the guard,
the one who must.

Let this thorn
die soon, I plead…
born to be
your guard in need.

Now tears can water
the moon’s tide,
this sting,
this spiral,
this fracture.

Don’t you turn
your face away?
Whose praise do I need,
night or day?

This longing grows
in the same soil,
without your red,
I’m just a weed.

I envy,
but my heart
grows only toward you,
the distance shrinks
since I was born.

My envy,
my you,
my hollow grave…
body empties,
none to mourn.

My garden dies
where you once grew,
yet still I watch
and wait for you.

Yeah, I don’t want
to be the rose
just to be loved,
or to be true.

Author’s Note

I Am Your thorn, does not wish to wound. It only wishes to be seen not as the rose, but as the guard who grew beside it. Envy, when it holds no poison, is simply a garden asking for equal light. We spend so much time loving what blooms in the open that we forget the stems, the thorns, the silent structure of beauty. To love without possession, to ache without destruction that’s not weakness but the hardest form of devotion.

This thorn asks nothing from the rose except to be noticed, to be allowed to exist in the same soil without shame. Just that’s the truest kind of love, not to become the other, but to be loved for what you already are.