roses don’t have thorns; they have / prickles. there’s a difference. like how my own / thorns grow right over my / scars, like they want / to ward off touch and / inspection: don’t look at me too closely or I’ll draw / blood. and thorns, true thorns, are connected to the / vascular system, the heart of the plant, so they’re hard / to remove, and my thorns are also looped into my / arteries, my veins—my very blood pulsing in the defensive spikes over old wounds. don’t / touch me don’t touch me don’t touch / me. I’ll punch a hole through / your thumb if you try. 

but prickles? oh, my love, prickles are only / skin. they’re surface-level and easy to pluck off, as if / they were never there at all. if only you could pick at my / skin and peel the pointed parts off and pretend / I was soft all along. pretend I’m a / rosebud in glass, blooming / velvet, gentle and genteel. pretend you can / snatch a flower off my stem and I won’t / stab you for it. or / (here’s a thought) / you can finally admit I’m a hawthorn tree and I’ll never / be a pretty blossom in a pretty vase for you. I’m in the same family, / sure—hawthorns and roses are both Rosaceae—but god, did you pick / the wrong cousin. I'll never make a nice little / centerpiece for your dining room table. 

but thorns, I think, are / pretty in their own way. The / ferocity with which they shield wounds / that won’t fade—don’t touch me, they say, but if you / come at them from the side, they’re only / a few slim inches of stem. leave the point and / caress the shoot. find that it started, maybe, as a / bud. I wasn’t always so defensive. / I can’t be soft, but I can be / beautiful, still, with thorns. and maybe if you / come at my armor slow and gentle, I’ll / let you see the scars they safeguard.