She was thornless;
Kind-hearted and sweet.
But she was thorned.

A rose with thorns took one of theirs and
struck her so she could defend herself.

She gained a thorn.
But it only pierced through like a sword,
Leaving her bleeding out.

She was abandoned.
All the other roses stared,
either grossed out, unsure, or scared to be pricked,

She was left.
But they continued to grow.

I stood in the familiar field of roses,
Looking for MY rose, THE rose without thorns.
Then, I saw the piercing blade in her,
And handed her the one I had.

We love.
We stay.
And I’d pick her over and over again,
with or without thorns;
given or grown