That thorn in my side.
Painful, big, visible, obvious
No matter how much I try
I can’t seem to get rid of it.

It hangs on.
Sticking me. Breaking my skin.
Torturing me and making me bleed.
Spilling out my weakness.
I can’t get it out.

I struggle to make
my thorn smaller.
Reduce it to a rose thorn.
Still sharp, but less scary.
outshined by the rose’s beauty.

But then, when I let my guard down
the thorn gets bigger,
Stronger.
Angry that it was overlooked
By that beautiful rose.

It turns into a porcupine thorn.
Takes over. Seems to multiply
so when people see me,
all they see is my thorn.
They call me prickly,
Defining me by my thorn.
Naming me by my weakness.

I fight the thorn,
but that thorn has roots.
Hard, rigid extensions
that fight back
Trying to take root in my insides.

But I stay in the struggle,
Stay in the fight.
Reaching for the rose
Trying to banish that porcupine.

Although it’s painful,
My thorn is part of my journey
And maybe one day
It will just be part of my testimony.