Thorns by Valerie Parente

Thorns,
wringing my neck
hijacking my own prose
and taking my own breath.

Thorns,
tangled with my veins
I long to protect
the thing that constrains.

Thorns,
why do I wear them proud
as if their scratches
make me profound.

Thorns,
mistaken for a preference
I say I’m comfortable with them
but the discomfort is ever present.

Thorns,
such a cruel joke
because my favorite flower
has always been a rose.